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illNIV.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


Our  Square 


Cyrus  wondered  what  this  half  fairy,  half  flower,  was  doing  in 
so  grubby  an  environment  (page  7) 


OUR  SQUARE  AND 
THE  PEOPLE  IN  IT 


BY 


Samuel  Hopkins  Adams 


illustrated  by 
7.  Scott  Williams 


Boston  and  New  York 
Houghton  Mifflin  Company 
Cambribge 


COPYRIGHT,    1916,   BY  THE   RIDOWAY    COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,    1916  AND    1917,    BY   P.    F.    COLLIER   &    SON,   INC. 

COPYRIGHT,    1917,   BY   SAMUEL  HOPKINS   ADAMS 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  October  /<?// 


Contents 

Our  Square  3 

The  Chair  that  Whispered:  An  Idyl  of  Our 

Square  84 

MacLacban  of  Our  Square  122 

'The  Great  Peacemaker :  A  Story  of  Neu- 
trality in  Our  Square  148 

Orpheus,,  who  Made  Music  in  Our  Square  172 

"  Tazmun " :  A  'Tale  of  White  Magic  in 

Our  Square  222 

The  Meanest  Man  in  Our  Square  266 

Paula  of  the  Housetop  314 

The  Little  Red  Doctor  of  Our  Square  374 


2125492 


Illustrations 

Cyrus  wondered  what  this  half  fairy ,  half 
flower ',  was  doing  in  so  grubby  an  envi- 
ronment Frontispiece 

Whirled  her  up  out  of  a -pit  of  blackness,  and 
supported  her  through  a  reeling  world  40 

"  Read  from  left  to  right"  she  said  curtly         56 

'The  Bonnie  Lassie's  hands  slipped  up  to  his 
shoulder  82 

"Te  knew  I  was  killing  myself  for  lo — ,/0r 
shame  of  ye"  144 

"  We  have  successfully  terminated  the  nego- 
tiations, Madam  Tallajferr"  260 

"  /  puh-hut  it  in  my  huh-huh-hair,  and  it 

stu-huh-huck "  330 

Jogging  appreciatively  along  behind  Schutz's 

mouse-hued  mare  384 


The  illustrations  are  reproduced  through  the  courtesy  of 
the  publishers  of  Everybody's  Magazine  and  Collier''*. 


Our  Square 
i 

OUR  Square  lies  broad  and  green  and 
busy,  in  the  forgotten  depths  of 
the  great  city.  By  day  it  is  bright  with  the 
laughter  of  children  and  shrill  with  the 
bickering  of  neighbors.  By  night  the  voice 
of  the  spellbinder  is  strident  on  its  corners, 
but  from  the  remoter  benches  float  mur- 
murs where  the  young  couples  sit,  and 
sighs  where  the  old  folk  relax  their  wear- 
iness. New  York  knows  little  of  Our 
Square,  submerged  as  we  are  in  a  circle 
of  slums.  Yet  for  us,  as  for  more  Elysian 
fields,  the  crocus  springs  in  the  happy 
grass,  the  flash  and  song  of  the  birds  stir 
our  trees,  and  Romance  fans  us  with  the 
wind  of  its  imperishable  wing. 

The  first  robin  was  singing  in  our  one 
lone  lilac  when  the  Bonnie  Lassie  came  out 


Our  Square 


of  the  Somewhere  Else  into  Our  Square 
and  possessed  herself  of  the  ground  floor 
of  our  smallest  house,  the  nestly  little 
dwelling  with  the  quaint  old  door  and  the 
broad,  friendly  vestibule,  next  but  one  to  the 
Greek  church.  Before  she  had  been  there 
a  month  she  had  established  eminent  do- 
main over  all  of  us.  Even  MacLachan,  the 
dour  tailor  on  the  corner,  used  to  burst 
into  song  when  she  passed.  It  was  he  who 
dubbed  her  the  Bonnie  Lassie,  and  as  it 
was  the  first  decent  word  he  'd  spoken  of 
living  being  within  the  memory  of  Our 
Square,  the  name  stuck.  Apart  from  that, 
it  was  eminently  appropriate.  She  was  a 
small  girl  who  might  have  been  perhaps 
twenty-three  or  twenty-four  if  she  had  n't 
(more  probably)  been  twenty,  and  looked 
a  good  deal  like  a  thoughtful  kitten  when 
she  was  n't  twinkling  at  or  with  some- 
body. When  she  twinkled  —  and  she  did 
it  with  eyes,  voice,  heart,  and  soul  all  at 
once — the  cart-peddlers  stopped  business 

4 


Our  Square 


to  look  and  listen.   You   can't  go  further 
than  that,  not  in  Our  Square  at  least. 

How  long  Cyrus  the  Gaunt  had  been 
there  before  she  discovered  him  is  a  mat- 
ter of  conjecture.  He  slipped  in  from  the 
Outer  Darkness  quite  unobtrusively  and 
sat  about  looking  thoughtful  and  lonely. 
He  was  exaggeratedly  long  and  loose  and 
mussed-up  and  melancholy-looking,  and 
first  attracted  local  attention  on  a  bench 
which  several  other  people  wanted  more 
than  he  did.  So  he  got  up  and  gave  it  to 
them.  Later,  when  the  huskiest  of  them 
met  him  and  explained,  by  way  of  put- 
ting him  in  his  proper  place,  what  would 
have  happened  to  him  if  he  hadn't  been 
so  obliging,  Cyrus  absent-mindedly  said, 
"Oh,  yes,"  threw  the  belligerent  one  into 
our  fountain,  held  him  under  water  quite  as 
long  as  was  safe,  dragged  him  out,  hauled 
him  over  to  Schwartz's,  and  bought  him 
a  drink.  Thereafter  Cyrus  was  still  con- 
sidered an  outlander,  but  nobody  actively 

5 


Our  Square 

objected  to  his  sitting  around  Our  Square, 
looking  as  melancholy  and  queer  as  he 
chose.  Nobody,  that  is,  until  the  Bonnie 
Lassie  took  him  in  hand. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  correct 
than  their  first  meeting,  sanctioned  as  it 
was  by  the  majesty  of  the  law.  Terry  the 
Cop,  who  presides  over  the  destinies  of 
Our  Square,  led  the  Bonnie  Lassie  to 
Cyrus's  bench  and  said :  "  Miss,  this  is  the 
young  feller  you  asked  me  about.  Make 
you  two  acquainted." 

Thereupon  the  young  man  got  up  and 
said,  "  How-d'ye-do  ? "  wonderingly,  and 
the  young  woman  nodded  and  said, "  How- 
d'ye-do?"  non-committally,  and  the  young 
policeman  strolled  away,  serene  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  a  social  duty  well  performed. 

The  Bonnie  Lassie  regarded  her  new 
acquaintance  with  soft,  studious  eyes. 
There  was  something  discomfortingly  de- 
humanizing in  that  intent  appraisal.  He 
wriggled. 

6 


Our  Square 


"Yes,  I  think  you'll  do,"  she  rumi- 
nated slowly. 

"Thanks,"  murmured  Cyrus,  wonder- 
ing for  what. 

"  Suppose  we  sit  down  and  talk  it  over," 
said  she. 

Studying  her  unobtrusively  from  his 
characteristically  drooping  position,  Cyrus 
wondered  what  this  half-fairy,  half-flower, 
with  the  decisive  manner  of  a  mistress  of 
destiny,  was  doing  in  so  grubby  an  environ- 
ment. 

On  her  part,  she  reflected  that  she 
had  seldom  encountered  so  homely  a  face, 
and  speculated  as  to  whether  that  was  its 
sole  claim  to  interest.  Then  he  lifted  his 
head;  his  eyes  met  hers,  and  she  modified 
her  estimate,  substituting  for  "  homely/' 
first  "queer,"  then  "quaint,"  and  finally 
"unusual."  Also  there  was  something 
impersonally  but  hauntingly  reminiscent 
about  him ;  something  baffling  and  discon- 
certing, too.  'The  face  was  n't  right. 

7 


Our  Square 

"Do  you  mind  answering  some  ques- 
tions?" she  asked. 

"Depends,"  he  replied  guardedly. 

"Well,  I  '11  try.   Do  you  live  here?" 

"Just  around  the  corner." 

"What  do  you  do?" 

"Nothing  much." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  doing  it  ? " 

"Too  long." 

"Why  don't  you  stop?" 

For  the  second  time  Cyrus  the  Gaunt 
lifted  his  long,  thin  face  and  looked  her 
in  the  eye.  "Beautiful  Incognita,"  he 
drawled  with  mild  impertinence, "  did  you 
write  the  Shorter  Catechism  or  are  you 
merely  plagiarizing?" 

"  Oh ! "  she  said.  Surprise  and  the  slight- 
est touch  of  dismay  were  in  the  monosyl- 
lable. "  I  'm  afraid  I  've  made  a  mistake.  I 
thought  —  the  policeman  said  you  were  a 
down-and-outer." 

"  I  'm  the  First  Honorary  Vice-President 
of  the  Life  Branch  of  the  Organization." 

8 


Our  Square 


He  slumped  back  into  his  former  atti- 
tude. Again  she  studied  him.  "No,  I  don't 
understand,"  she  said  slowly. 

But  the  dehumanizing  tone  had  gone 
from  the  soft  voice.  Cyrus  began  to  rescue 
his  personality  from  her  impersonal  ignor- 
ing of  it.  He  also  felt  suddenly  a  livelier 
interest  in  life.  Then,  unexpectedly,  she 
turned  his  flank. 

"  You  lurk  and  stare  at  my  house  in  the 
dark,"  she  accused. 

"Which  house?"  he  asked,  startled. 

"You  know  quite  well.  You  should  n't 
stare  at  strange  houses.  It  embarrasses 
them." 

"  Is  that  the  miniature  mansion  with  the 
little  bronzes  of  dancing  street-children  in 
the  windows?" 

She  nodded. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  stare?  There's  a 
secret  in  that  house  !  " 

"A  secret?  What  secret?" 

"The  secret  of  happiness.  Those  danc- 

9 


Our  Square 

ing  kiddies  have  got  it.  I  want  it.  I  want 
to  know  what  makes  'em  so  happy.'* 

"  I  do/'  said  the  girl  promptly. 

"Yes.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised,"  he  as- 
sented, lifting  his  head  to  contemplate  her 
with  his  direct  and  grave  regard.  "  Do  you 
live  there  with  them?" 

"They're  mine.  I  model  them.  I'm 
a  sculptor." 

"  Good  Lord  !  You  !  But  you  're  a  very 
good  one,  are  n't  you  ?  — if  you  did  those." 

"  I've  been  a  very  bad  one.  Now  I  'm 
trying  to  be  a  very  good  one." 

A  gleam  of  comprehension  lit  his  eye. 
"  Oh,  then  it 's  as  a  subject  that  you  thought 
I  'd  do.  You  wanted  to  sculp  me."- 

"Yes,  I  do.  For  my  collection.  You  see, 
I  've  adopted  this  Square," 

"And  now  you're  sculping  it.  I  see." 
He  raised  himself  to  peer  across  at  the 
windows  where  the  blithe  figures  danced, 
tiny  maenads  of  the  gutter,  Baccha?  of  the 
asphalt.  "But  I  don't  see  why  on  earth 

10 


Our  Square 


you  want  me.  Do  you  think  you  could 
make  me  happy?" 

"I  shouldn't  try." 

"  Hopeless  job,  you  think  ?  As  a  sculptor 
you  ought  to  be  a  better  judge  of  charac- 
ter. You  ought  to  pierce  through  the  ex- 
ternals and  perceive  with  your  artistic  eye 
that  beneath  this  austere  mask  I  'm  as 
merry  a  little  cricket  as  ever  had  his  chirp 
smothered  by  the  slings  and  arrows  of  out- 
rageous Fortune." 

It  was  then  that  she  twinkled  at  him, 
and  the  twinkle  grew  into  a  laugh,  such 
golden  laughter  as  brightened  life  to  the 
limits  of  its  farthest  echo.  Cyrus  had  the 
feeling  that  the  gray  April  sky  had  mo- 
mentarily opened  up  and  sent  down  a  sun- 
ray  to  illumine  the  proceedings. 

"How  wonderfully  you  mix  them!" 
she  cried.  "  Shall  I  sculp  you  in  cap  and 
bells?" 

"Why  should  I  letyou  sculp  meat  all  ?" 

She  stopped  laughing  abruptly  and 
ii 


Our  Square 

looked  up  at  him  with  wondering  eyes  and 
parted  lips,  drooping  just  the  tiniest  bit  at 
the  corners.  "  Everybody  does,"  she  said. 

At  once  he  understood  why  everybody 
did  that  or  anything  else  she  wished.  "  All 
right,"  he  yielded.  "What  am  I  to  sit 
for?" 

"Fifty  cents  an  hour." 

Then  the  Bonnie  Lassie  got  her  second 
surprise  from  him.  His  face  changed 
abruptly.  An  almost  animal  eagerness 
shone  in  his  eyes.  "  Fif-fif-fif — -"  he  be- 
gan, then  recovered  himself.  "  Pardon  my 
performing  like  a  deranged  steam-whistle, 
but  do  I  understand  that  you  offer  to  pay 
me  for  sitting  about  doing  nothing  while 
you  work  ?  Did  all  those  cheerful  dancers 
in  the  window  collect  pay  at  that  rate?" 

"Some  of  them  did.  Others  are  my 
friends." 

"Ah,  you  draw  social  distinctions,  I 
perceive." 

"I  think  we  needn't  fence,"  said  the 
12 


Our  Square 


girl  spiritedly.  "  When  1  came  to  you  I 
thought  you  were  of  Our  Square.  If  you 
will  tell  me  just  what  variety  of  masquer- 
ader  you  are,  we  shall  get  on  faster." 

"  Do  you  think  I  don't  belong  quite  as 
much  to  Our  Square  as  you  do  ? " 

"  Oh,  I !  This  is  my  workshop.  This  is 
my  life.  But  you — I  should  have  sus- 
pected you  from  the  first  word  you  spoke. 
What  are  you?  Don't  tell  me  that  you 
are  here  Settlementing  or  Sociologizing 
or  Improving  the  Condition  of  Somebody 
Else  !  Because  I  really  do  need  your  face," 
she  concluded  with  convincing  earnestness. 

"  It 's  yours  at  fifty  cents  an  hour." 

"  And  you  're  not  an  Improver  ? " 

"  Absolutely  not.  Do  I  look  as  if  I  'd 
improved  myself?" 

"  You  would  n't  do  at  all  for  my  pres- 
ent purpose,  improved,"  she  observed. 
"  Please  don't  forget  that.  When  can  you 
come  to  me? " 

"  Any  time." 

13 


Our  Square 


"Haven't  you  anything  else  to  do?" 

"  Nothing  but  look  out  for  odd  jobs. 
That 's  why  I'm  so  grateful  for  regular 
employment." 

"  But  this  is  n't  regular  employment." 
His  face  fell.  "  It 's  most  irregular,  and 
there  's  very  little  of  it." 

"  Oh,  well,  it 's  fifty  cents  an  hour. 
And  that 's  more  than  I  've  ever  earned 
in  my  life,  Miss  Sculptor." 

"  I  am  Miss  Willard.", 

"  Then,  Miss  Willard,  you  're  employ- 
ing Cyrus  Murphy.  Do  you  think  I  '11 
sculp  up  like  a  Murphy  ? " 

"  I  don't  think  you  '11  sculp  up  like  a 
Murphy  at  all,  and  I  've  too  many  friends 
who  are  Murphys  to  believe  that  you  are 
one.  In  fact,  I  could  do  you  much  better 
if  I  knew  what  you  are." 

"That's  quite  simple.  I 'm  a  suicide. 
I  walked  right  spang  over  the  edge  of  life 
and  disappeared.  Splash !  Bubble-bubble  ! 
There  goes  nothing.  The  only  difference 


Our  Square 


between  me  and  a  real  suicide  is  that  I 
have  to  eat.  At  times  it 's  difficult." 

"  Haven't  you  any  trade?  Can't  you  do 
anything?  "  With  a  sweep  of  her  little  hand 
she  indicated  the  bustling  activities  with 
which  the  outer  streets  whirred.  "  Is  n't 
there  any  place  for  you  in  all  this?" 

He  contemplated  the  world's  work  as 
exemplified  around  Our  Square.  His  gaze 
came  to  rest  upon  a  steam-roller,  ponder- 
ously clanking  over  a  railed-off  portion  of 
the  street.  "  I  suppose  I  could  run  that." 

"Could  you?  That's  a  man's  job  at 
least.  Have  you  ever  run  one  ? " 

"  No,  but  I  know  I  could.  Any  kind  of 
machinery  just  eats  out  of  my  hand." 

"  Well,  that 's  something.  It 's  better 
than  being  a  model.  Be  at  my  house  to- 
morrow at  nine  please." 

For  an  hour  thereafter  Cyrus  the  Gaunt 
sat  on  the  bench  musing  upon  a  small, 
flower-like,  almost  absurdly  efficient  young 
person  who  had  contracted,  as  he  viewed 

'5 


Our  Square 

it,  to  inject  light  and  color  into  life  at  fifty 
cents  an  hour,  and  who  had  plainly  inti- 
mated that,  in  her  view,  he  was  not  a  man. 
It  was  that  precise  opinion  expressed  by 
another  and  a  very  unlike  person  which 
was  responsible  for  his  being  where  he 
was.  At  that  time  it  had  made  him  furi- 
ous. Now  it  made  him  thoughtful. 

Presently  he  went  through  his  pockets, 
reckoned  his  assets,  rose  up  from  the 
bench,  and  made  a  trip  to  MacLachan's 
"  Home  of  Fashion,"  where  he  left  his 
clothes  to  be  pressed  overnight.  In  the 
morning  he  reappeared  again,  shaved  to 
the  closest  limit  of  human  endurance,  and 
thus  addressed  the  Scot :  — 

"  Have  you  got  my  clothes  pressed  ? " 

"  Aye,"  said  the  tailor. 

"  Well,  unpress  'em  again." 

"Eh?"  said  the  tailor. 

"  Unpress  'em.  Sit  on  'em.  Roll  'em  on 
the  floor.  Muss  'em  up.  Put  all  the 
wrinkles  back,  just  as  they  were." 

16 


Our  Square 


"  Mon,  ye  shud  leave  the  whiskey  be," 
advised  the  tailor. 

Thereupon  Cyrus  caught  up  his  neatly 
creased  suit  and  proceeded  to  play  football 
with  it,  after  which  he  put  it  on  and  viewed 
himself  with  satisfaction. 

"  And  I  almost  forgot  that  she  would  n't 
have  any  use  for  me,  improved,"  he  mut- 
tered as  he  wended  his  way  to  the  little, 
old  friendly  house.  "  Lord,  I  might  have 
lost  my  job! " 

Any  expectation  of  social  diversion  at 
fifty  cents  an  hour  which  Cyrus  the  Gaunt 
may  have  cherished  was  promptly  quashed 
on  his  arrival.  It  was  a  very  business- 
like little  sculptor  who  took  him  in 
hand. 

"  Sit  here,  please  —  the  right  knee  far- 
ther forward  —  let  the  chin  drop  a  little 
—  "  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

He  might  not  even  watch  the  soft,  strong 
little  hands  as  they  patted  and  kneaded, 
nor  the  vivid  face  as  plastic  as  the  material 


Our  Square 


from  which  the  hands  worked  their  won- 
ders, for  when  he  attempted  it :  — 

"  I  don't  wish  you  to  look  at  me.  I 
wish  you  to  look  at  nothing,  as  you  do 
when  you  sit  on  the  bench.  Make  your 
eyes  tired  again." 

The  difficulty  was  that  his  eyes,  tired  so 
long  with  that  weariness  which  lies  at  the 
very  roots  of  being,  did  n't  feel  tired  at 
all  in  the  little  studio.  For  one  thing,  there 
was  an  absurd,  flufFed-up  whirlwind  of  a 
kitten  who  performed  miracles  of  obstacle- 
racing  all  over  the  place.  Then,  in  the  most 
unexpected  crannies  and  corners  lurked  tiny 
bronzes,  instinct  with  life:  a  wistful  dog 
submitting  an  injured  paw  to  a  boy  hardly 
as  large  as  himself;  "Androcles"  this  one 
was  labeled.  Then  there  was  "  Mystery,' * 
a  young,  ill-clad  girl,  looking  down  at  a 
dead  butterfly;  "Remnants,"  a  withered 
and  bent  old  woman,  staggering  under  her 
load  of  builders'  refuse;  "The  Knight," 
a  small  boy  astride  across  the  body  of 

18 


Our  Square 


his  drunken  father,  brandishing  a  cudgel 
against  a  circle  of  unseen  tormentors  ;  and 
many  others,  all  vivid  with  that  feeling 
for  the  human  struggle  which  alone  can 
make  metal  live. 

"  Recess  ! "  cried  the  worker  presently. 
"  You  're  doing  quite  well !  " 

Thus  encouraged,  Cyrus  ventured  a 
question :  — 

"  Where  are  the  dancers  ? " 

"  They  're  all  in  the  window." 

"  But  this  in  here  is  quite  as  big  work, 
isn't  it?  Why  isn't  some  of  it  on  dis- 
play?" 

"  It's  for  outsiders.  It  is  n't  for  my  peo- 
ple." She  put  a  world  of  protectiveness  in 
the  two  final  words. 

"  I  can't  see  why  not." 

"  Because  the  people  of  Our  Square 
don't  need  to  be  told  of  the  tragedy  of 
life.  Joy  and  play  and  laughter  is  what 
they  need.  So  I  give  it  to  them." 

A  light  came  into  his  tired,  old-young 

19 


Our  Square 

eyes.  "  Do  you  know,  I  begin  to  think 
you  're  a  very  wonderful  person." 

"  Time  to  work  again,"  said  she. 

Whereby,  being  an  understanding  young 
man,  he  perceived  that  there  would  be  no 
safe  divergence  from  the  strict  relations  of 
employer  and  employed,  for  the  present 
at  least.  Haifa  dozen  times  he  sat  for  her, 
sometimes  collecting  a  dollar,  sometimes 
only  fifty  cents,  the  money  being  inva- 
riably handed  over  with  a  demure  and 
determined  air  of  business  procedure,  and 
duly  entered  in  a  tiny  book,  which  was  a 
never-failing  source  of  suppressed  amuse- 
ment to  him.  Then  one  day  the  basis 
abruptly  changed,  for  a  reason  he  did  not 
learn  about  until  long  after. 

It  had  to  do  with  a  process  which  I  must 
regretfully  term  eavesdropping,  on  the  part 
of  the  little  sculptor.  The  subjects  were 
two-on-a-bench,  in  Our  Square.  One  was 
Cyrus  the  Gaunt ;  the  other  an  inconsid- 
erable and  hopeless  lounger,  grim  and  wan. 

20 


Our  Square 

Silver  passed  between  them,  and  something 
else,  less  tangible,  something  which  lighted 
a  sudden  flame  of  hope  in  the  hopeless  face. 

"  A  real  job  ? "  the  lurking  sculptor  over- 
heard him  say,  hoarsely. 

Cyrus  nodded.  "Nine  o'clock  to-mor- 
row morning,  here,"  said  he. 

Slipping  quietly  away,  the  girl  almost 
ran  into  the  grim  and  wan  lounger,  no 
longer  so  grim  and  several  degrees  less  wan, 
as  he  rounded  the  opposite  curve  of  the  cir- 
cle and  passed  out  on  the  street  in  front  of 
her.  The  next  instant  Cyrus  shot  by  her  at 
a  long-legged  gallop  and  caught  the  man 
by  the  shoulder. 

"Here!  Wait!  Not  nine  o'clock,"  he 
cried  breathlessly.  "  I  forgot.  I  've  got  an 
engagement,  a  —  very  important  business 
engagement." 

The  other's  jaw  dropped.  "What  the 
—  "  he  began,  when  there  appeared  before 
them  both  a  trim  and  twinkling  vision  of 
femininity. 

21 


Our  Square 


"  I  'm  glad  I  saw  you,"  said  the  vision 
to  Cyrus,  "  because  I  shan't  want  you  until 
ten-thirty  to-morrow."  Then  she  passed 
on,  so  deep  in  thought  that  she  hardly  re- 
sponded to  the  greetings  which  accosted 
her  on  all  sides.  "  I  don't  understand  it  at 
ally'  she  murmured. 

Promptly  upon  the  morrow's  hour  Cyrus 
appeared  at  the  studio,  rumpled  and-mussed 
as  usual.  "How  do  you  do?"  the  artist 
greeted  him.  "  Before  we  go  to  work  I 
want  you  to  meet  Fluff." 

Cyrus  glanced  at  the  kitten,  who  was 
chasing  a  phantom  mouse  up  the  sway- 
ing curtain.  "  I  already  know  Fluff,"  said 
he. 

"Oh,  no,  you  don't,"  she  corrected 
gently.  "  That  is,  Fluff  does  n't  know  you. 
She  does  n't  know  that  you  are  alive.  Fluff 
is  a  person  of  fine  distinctions.  Come 
here,  Mischief."  The  kitten  gave  over  the 
chase,  after  one  last  lightning  swipe,  and 
trotted  across  the  room.  "  Fluff,"  said  her 

22 


Our  Square 


mistress,  "  this  is  our  friend,  Cyrus."  The 
kitten  purred  and  nosed  Cyrus's  foot. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  young  man 
gratefully.  "I  also  am  not  wholly  insen- 
sible to  fine  distinctions.  Fluff,  do  you 
know  how  those  ancient  barbarian  parties 
looked  and  acted  when  they  were  called 
'  friend  of  the  state  of  Rome '  ?  Well,  re- 
,gard  me." 

His  employer  twinkled  at  him  with  her 
eyes.  "I  've  sold  you,"  she  remarked. 

"At  a  good  price?" 

"Yes.  You  were  really  very  good." 

"  It  would  have  been  kind  to  let  me  see 
myself  before  you  bartered  me  away  into 
eternal  captivity." 

"  Kinder  not." 

"  You  mean  I  should  n't  have  liked  your 
idea  of  me?" 

"  Did  n't  I  say  that  it  was  good  ?  "  she 
returned  with  composed  pride.  "  My  idea 
of  you  wouldn't  be  good,  as  modeling. 
This  is  the  real  you,  the  man  underneath." 

23 


Our  Square 

"That 's  worse.  You  think  I  ought  n't 
to  like  myself  as  I  am." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  intimate  and 
sympathetic  friendliness.  "  Well,  do  you  ? " 
was  all  she  said. 

"  Whether  I  do  or  not,  it 's  pretty  evi- 
dent what  you  think  of  me." 

"  It  ought  to  be.  I  've  introduced  you 
to  Fluff.  One  can't  be  too  careful  as  to 
whom  one  introduces  to  one's  young  and 
guileless  daughter." 

"Thank  you."  For  the  first  time  in 
their  acquaintance  he  smiled.  The  smile 
changed  his  face  luminously. 

She  tossed  the  tiny  iron  with  which  she 
was  working  into  the  far  corner  of  the  studio. 
"  That  settles  it,"  she  said.  "  I  'm  through." 

"For  the  day?" 

"  Wrong!  All  wrong!  "  she  cried  vehe- 
mently, disregarding  his  question.  "Why 
did  you  have  to  go  and  smile  that  way  ? 
I  have  n't  done  you  at  all.  Do  you  know 
what  I  've  been  sculping  you  as  ? " 

24 


Our  Square 


"  You  would  n't  tell  me,  you  know. 
Nothing  very  flattering,  I  judged/' 

"As  a  disenchanted  and  uncontrolled 
drifter." 

"  And  now  you  think  perhaps  I  'm 
not?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  are,  but  I 
think  I  might  as  well  be  clicking  the  shut- 
ter of  a  camera,  for  all  I  Ve  done  with 
you.  The  point  is,  that  I  've  come  to  the 
end  of  you  for  the  present." 

"You  don't  want  me  any  more?"  he 
cried,  aghast. 

"  If  I  did,  you  would  n't  have  time. 
I  've  got  you  a  real  man's  job." 

"  What  kind  of  slavery  have  you  sold 
me  into  this  time  ?" 

"The  steam-roller.  I  've  used  my  influ- 
ence—  you  don't  know  what  a  pull  I've 
got  around  here — and  I  can  name  my  man 
for  the  late  night-shift.  Will  you  take  it  ? " 

His  face  was  elate.  "  Will  I  take  it ! 
Will  a  duck  eat  pie  ?  " 


Our  Square 


"  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Will  it?" 

"  It  will  if  it  can't  get  anything  else  to 
eat.  How  long  is  this  job  good  for?*' 

"  All  summer  and  more.  How  long  are 
you?" 

"  Till  released." 

"  You  have  made  a  promise.  I  '11  enter 
it  in  my  ledger."  Which  she  did,  writing 
it  down  in  her  absurd  little  booklet  with 
a  delicious  solemnity  of  importance. 

"  But  can't  I  come  and  sit  for  you  after- 
noons?" he  pleaded. 

"  How  many  wages  do  you  want  to 
earn  ?  No;  not  at  present.  But  Miss  Fluff 
and  I  are  at  home  to  honest  working  friends 
on  Friday  evenings.  Come  here,  Miss  Fluff, 
and  tell  the  new  engineer  that  we'll  be 
glad  to  have  him  come  and  tell  us  about  the 
job  when  he 's  learned  it."  But  the  kitten 
paid  no  heed,  being  at  that  moment  en- 
gaged in  treacherously  and  scientifically 
stalking  an  imaginary  butterfly  along  the 
window-sill. 

26 


Our  Square 


"  Before  I  'm  banished,"  said  Cyrus, 
"may  I  ask  a  question?" 

"  You  might  try  it." 

"  Do  you  mind  telling  me  your  given 
name  ?  Not  for  use,"  he  added,  as  she  looked 
up  at  him  with  her  grave,  speculative  gaze, 
"  but  just  as  a  guaranty  of  good  faith.  I 
set  great  store  by  other  people's  names, 
having  been  cursed  since  birth  with  my 
own  Persian  abomination." 

"  I  don't  think  Cyrus  is  bad  at  all,"  she 
said.  "Mine  is  Carol." 

"  Oh,"  said  he  blankly. 

"Don't  you  like  it?" 

"  It 's  a  very  nice  name,  for  some  peo- 
ple," he  said  guardedly. 

"You  don't  like  it.  Why?" 

There  was  no  evading  the  directness  of 
that  demand.  "  I  never  knew  but  one  girl 
named  Carol,"  he  said.  "  She  squinted." 

"What  of  it?  I  don't  squint.  Do  I? 
Do  I?  DO  I?" 

With  each  repetition  of  her  defiance  she 
27 


Our  Square 

took  one  step  nearer  him,  until  at  the  last 
she  was  fairly  standing  on  tiptoe  under  his 
nose.  Cyrus  the  Gaunt  looked  down  into 
those  radiant  eyes  that  grew  wider  and 
deeper  and  deeper  and  wider,  until  his 
heart,  which  had  been  slipping  perilously 
of  late,  fell  into  them  and  was  hopelessly 
lost.  "  Do  I  ?"  she  demanded  once  more. 

Cyrus  responded  with  a  loud  yell.  In- 
appropriate as  the  outcry  was,  it  saved  a 
situation  becoming  potentially  dangerous, 
for  not  far  below  those  luminous  eyes  was 
a  dimple  that  flickered  at  the  corner  of  a 
challenging  mouth ;  unconsciously  chal- 
lenging, doubtless,  yet  —  And  then  Fluff, 
opportunely  descrying  her  imaginary  but- 
terfly on  the  side  of  Cyrus's  trouser-leg, 
made  a  flying  leap  and  drove  ten  keen  claws 
through  the  fabric  into  the  skin  beneath. 
Her  mistress  dislodged  the  too  ardent  en- 
tomologist, and  apologized  demurely. 

"You  see,"  said  she,  "  you  've  become  an 
intimate  of  the  household.  When  you  're 
28 


Our  Square 

too  busy  to  come  and  see  us,  Fluff  and 
I  will  peek  out  and  admire  you  as  you  go 
plunging  past  on  your  irresistible  course." 

"It's  going  to  be  a  lonely  job,"  said 
Cyrus  the  Gaunt  wistfully,  "  compared 
to  this  one." 

"  Nonsense! "  she  retorted  briskly  ^as  she 
handed  him  a  dollar  bill.  "  Here  's  your 
pay.  You  '11  be  too  busy  to  be  lonely. 
Good  luck,  Mr.  Engineer." 

II 

Thus  Cyrus  the  Gaunt  became  a  toiler 
in,  and  by  slow  degrees  a  citizen  of,  Our 
Square.  We  are  a  doubtful  people  where 
strangers  are  concerned.  The  ritual  of 
initiation  for  Cyrus  was,  at  first,  chance 
words  and  offhand  nods,  then  an  occasional 
bidding  to  sit  in  at  Schwartz's,  and  finally 
consultations  and  confidences  on  matters 
of  import,  political,  social,  or  private. 
Thus  was  Cyrus  the  Gaunt  adopted  as  one 
29 


Our  Square 

of  us.  Quite  from  the  outset  of  his  job  he 
became  a  notable  pictorial  asset  of  the 
place,  standing  out,  lank  and  ^black,  in 
the  intermittent  gleam  of  his  own  engine, 
as  he  rolled  on  his  appointed  course  amidst 
firmamental  thunderings.  Acting  as  chauf- 
feur to  ten  tons  of  ill-balanced  metal,  he 
promptly  discovered,  is  an  occupation  to 
which  the  tyro  must  pay  explicit  heed  if 
he  would  keep  within  the  bounds  of  his 
precinct.  About  the  time  when  he  was 
beginning  to  feel  at  ease  with  his  charger, 
he  came  to  a  stop,  one  misty  night,  di- 
rectly opposite  the  window  of  a  taxicab,  and 
met  a  pair  of  eyes  which  straightway  be- 
came fixed  in  a  paralysis  of  amazed  doubt. 

"  No  ;  it  is  n't.  It  can't  be,"  said  the 
owner  of  the  eyes  presently. 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  contradicted  Cyrus. 

"  Well,  I  'm  jiggered  !  " 

"  That 's  all  that  the  pious  young  Pres- 
byterian boss  of  a  fashionable  church  has 
a  right  to  be." 

30 


Our  Square 


"What  are  you  doing  up  there?" 

"  Piloting  a  submarine  under  Gover- 
nor's Island." 

"  So  I  see."  The  taxi-door  opened,  and 
some  six  feet  of  well-tailored  manhood 
mounted  nimbly  to  Cyrus's  side.  "  What 's 
the  fare?  And  why?  Is  it  a  bet?" 

Cyrus  the  Gaunt  grinned  amiably  in 
the  face  of  the  Reverend  Morris  Cart- 
wright,  whose  appearance  in  that  quarter 
did  not  greatly  surprise  him.  "  How  did 
you  know?  It's  leaked  out  at  the  club, 
has  it?" 

"  Not  that  I  know  of.    I  guessed  it." 

"  Thought  nothing  short  of  a  bet  would 
account  for  such  a  reversal  of  form,  eh? 
Keep  it  to  yourself,  and  I  '11  tell  you  the 
rest." 

"  You  've  hired  an  ear,"  observed  the 
young  cleric. 

"  Maybe  you  heard  that  I  had  a  nervous 
breakdown  last  spring.  Kind  of  a  mixture 
of  things." 


Our  Square 

"  Yes ;  I  know  the  mixture.  Three  of 
gin  to  one  of  Italian." 

"  You  know  too  much  for  a  minister," 
growled  the  other.  "  Besides,  it  was  only 
part  that.  I  just  sort  of  got  sick  of  doing 
nothing  and  being  nothing,  and  the  sick- 
ness struck  in,  I  expect.  Well,  one  morn- 
ing, after  a  night  of  bridge,  I  came  out 
into  the  breakfast-room  nine  hundred  plus 
to  the  good,  and  about  ready  to  invest  the 
whole  in  any  kind  of  painless  dope  that 
would  save  me  from  being  bored  with  this 
life  any  more.  There  sat  Doc  Gerritt,  pink 
and  smooth  like  a  cherry-stone  clam.  I 
stuck  out  my  hand,  and  it  was  shaking.  I 
dare  say  my  voice  was  shaking,  too,  for 
Gerry  looked  up  pretty  sharp,  when  I  said, 
'  Doc,  can  you  do  anything  for  me  ? ' 
'  No/  says  he.  '  Is  it  as  bad  as  that  ? '  I 
asked.  '  It 's  worse/  says  he.  '  I  'm  a  busy 
man  with  no  time  to  waste  on  sure  losses. 
Flat  down,  Cyrus,  you  are  n't  worth  it.' 
'  This  is  all  I  've  got  of  me,'  I  said.  « I  'm 

32 


Our  Square 

worth  it  to  myself.'  '  Then  do  it  for  your- 
self,' he  snapped.  '  You  're  the  only  one 
that  can.'  'Will  you  tell  me  how?'  'I 
will,'  says  he.  '  But  you  won't  do  it.  You 
are  n't  man  enough.'  '  Gerry,'  I  said, '  you 
may  be  a  good  doctor,  but  you  're  a  damn 
liar.'  'Am  I  ?'  says  he.  «  Prove  it.  Cut  the 
booze  and  go  to  work.'  'Work  won't  do 
me  any  good,'  I  said.  '  I  've  tried  it,  and 
it  bored  me  worse  than  the  other  thing. 
When  I  'm  bored,  I  naturally  reach  for  a 
drink.'  (There  's  a  great  truth  in  that,  you 
know,  Carty,  if  the  temperance  people 
would  only  grab  it:  boredom  and  booze  — 
cause  and  effect.)  'That's  a  hot  line  of 
advice,  Doc,'  I  said.  '  Maybe  you  '11  think 
better  of  it  when  you  get  my  bill  for  fifty/ 
says  he.  (I  got  it,  too.  I  've  still  got  it.) 
'  I  don't  mean  Wall  Street,  Cyrus,'  says  he. 
'  I  mean  work.  You  've  never  tried  work. 
You  've  just  played  at  it.  I  '11  bet  you  a 
thousand,'  he  went  on  (he  was  playing  me 
up  to  this  all  the  time,  Carty), '  that  you  'd 

33 


Our  Square 

starve  in  six  months  if  you  tried  to  make 
your  living  where  nobody  knows  you/ 
Well,  Carty,  you  know  how  I  am  with  a 
bet.  It  comes  just  as  natural  to  me  to  say 
'  You  're  on,'  as  '  Here's  how,'  or  *  Have 
another.'  I  said  it,  and  here  I  am.  I  '11 
bet  Doc  Gerritt's  laughing  yet,"  he  con- 
cluded with  a  wry  face. 

"They  say  he's  the  best  diagnostician 
going,  in  his  own  line."  The  young  cler- 
gyman studied  Cyrus  out  of  the  corner  of 
his  eye.  "  I  would  n't  wonder  if  it  were  true. 
How  do  you  like  the  prescription  so  far  ?" 

"Interesting,"  said  Cyrus  the  Gaunt. 
"  I  've  been  hungry,  and  I  've  been  lonely, 
and  I  've  been  scared,  and  I  've  even  been 
near-yellow,  but  I  haven't  been  bored  for 
a  minute.  You  never  get  bored,  Carty, 
when  you  have  the  probabilities  of  your 
next  meal  to  speculate  on,  pro  and  con. 
Odd  jobs  have  been  my  stay  mostly,  before 
I  landed  this.  And  when  there  wasn't 
anything  in  my  own  line,  I  kept  up  my 

34 


Our  Square 

nerve  by  catching  'em  on  the  way  down 
and  shoving  'em  into  jobs  on  Jink  Here- 
ford's Canadian  preserve." 

"Good  man!"  approved  the  Reverend 
Morris  Cartwright.  "  What  '11  you  have  ? " 
he  added. 

"  Frankfurters  and  a  glass  of  milk,  if  it 's 
an  open  order.  But  you'll  have  to  fetch  it 
to  me  from  Schwartz's.  I  can't  leave  this 
here  skittish  little  pet  of  mine." 

Then  and  there  some  Sunday  supple- 
ment missed  a  "throbbing  human-interest 
story  "  in  that  no  reporter  was  present  to 
witness  one  of  New  York's  fashionable 
young  pastors  emerging  from  an  obscure 
saloon  bearing  food  and  drink  to  the  grimy 
driver  of  an  all-night  thunder- wagon. 

"And  now,"  said  Cyrus  the  Gaunt, 
handing  down  the  empty  glass,  "if  it  isn't 
one  of  your  disgraceful  secrets,  what  are 
you  doing  in  this  galley  ?  Heading  off  some 
poor  unfortunate  who  wants  to  go  to  the 
devil  peacefully,  in  his  own  way?" 

35 


Our  Square 

"No,  I  leave  that  to  the  doctors,"  re- 
torted the  other  mildly. 

"  Quite  so/'  chuckled  Cyrus.  "  Throw 
some  water  in  my  face  and  drag  me  to  my 
corner,  will  you?" 

"This  is  an  errand  of  diplomacy,"  con- 
tinued Cartwright.  "  I  'm  an  envoy.  Do 
you  happen  to  know  which  house  — " 
His  ranging  vision  fell  upon  the  row  of 
figures  joyously  dancing  in  the  window. 
"Never  mind,"  he  said,  "I  Ve  found  it." 
He  disappeared  between  the  portals  of  the 
old-fashioned,  hospitable  door. 

Quite  a  considerable  part  of  his  week's 
wages  would  Cyrus  the  Gaunt  have  for- 
feited to  interpret  the  visitor's  expression 
when  he  came  out,  a  long  hour  later.  He 
looked  at  once  harassed,  regretful,  and  yet 
triumphant,  as  one  might  look  who  had 
achieved  the  object  of  a  thankless  errand. 

The  Bonnie  Lassie  came  to  the  door 
with  him  and  stood  gazing  out  across  the 
flaring  lights  and  quivering  shadows  of 
36 


Our  Square 


Our  Square.   It  seemed  to  Cyrus  that  the 
flower-face  drooped  a  little. 

And  indeed  the  Bonnie  Lassie  was  not 
feeling  very  happy.  When  one's  adopted 
world  goes  well,  the  claims  that  draw 
one  back  become  irksome  ties.  The  mes- 
senger from  the  world  which  she  had  tem- 
porarily foregone  was  far  from  welcome. 
But  at  least  she  had  claimed  and  won  some 
months  of  respite  and  freedom  for  her 
work. 

So  engrossed  did  she  become  with  that 
work  that  she  saw  little  or  nothing  of 
Cyrus  the  Gaunt  until  Chance  brought 
them  together  in  the  climatic  fashion  so 
dear  to  that  Protean  arbiter  of  destinies. 
Returning  one  evening  from  a  call  upon  a 
small  invalid  friend  in  a  tenement  quite 
remote  from  Our  Square,  the  Bonnie  Las- 
sie essayed  a  cross-cut  which  skirted  the 
mouth  of  a  blind  alley.  From  within  there 
sounded  a  woman's  scream  of  pain  and  fear. 

37 


Our  Square 


The  Bonnie  Lassie  hesitated.  It  was  a 
forbidding  alley,  and  the  scream  was  not 
inspiriting.  It  was  repeated.  Not  for  noth- 
ing is  one  undisputed  empress  of  Our 
Square.  The  Bonnie  Lassie  had  the  courage 
of  one  who  rules.  She  swooped  into  that 
black  byway  like  a  swallow  entering  a 
cave.  Now  the  screams  were  muffled,  with 
a  grisly,  choked  sound.  They  led  her  fly- 
ing feet  toward  a  narrow  side  passage.  But 
before  she  reached  the  turn,  a  towering 
bulk  sped  by  her,  almost  filling  the  thin 
slit  between  the  walls. 

When  she  came  within  view,  the  matter 
was  apparently  settled.  A  swarthy,  vividly 
clad  woman  cringed  against  one  wall. 
Against  the  other  Cyrus  had  pinned  a 
swarthier  man.  The  man,  helpless,  seemed 
to  be  wheedling  and  promising.  With  a 
final  shake  and  a  growl  —  the  girl  likened 
it  in  her  mind  to  that  of  a  great,  magnani- 
mous dog  —  the  gaunt  one  released  the 
Sicilian  and  stopped  to  pick  up  his  hat, 

38 


Our  Square 


which  had  fallen  in  the  struggle.  Then  the 
girl's  heart  leaped  and  clogged  her  throat 
with  terror,  for,  as  Cyrus  turned,  the  pre- 
tense fell  from  the  face  of  his  opponent 
and  it  changed  to  a  mask  of  murder.  His 
hand  darted  to  his  breast  and  came  forth 
clutching  the  thin,  terrible,  homemade 
stiletto  of  the  rag-picking  tribe,  a  file 
ground  to  a  rounded  needle-point.  The 
girl  strove  to  cry  out.  It  seemed  to  her 
only  the  whisper  of  a  nightmare.  But  it 
was  enough. 

Cyrus  spun  around  and  leaped  back. 
His  arm  went  out  stiff  as  a  bar.  At  the  end 
of  it  was  a  formidable  something  which 
flashed  with  an  ugly  glint  of  metal  in  the 
Sicilian's  face.  Whether  or  not  she  heard  a 
report,  the  terror-stricken  onlooker  could 
not  have  said.  But  the  would-be  murderer 
screamed,  tottered,  withered.  His  weapon 
tinkled  upon  the  coping.  Then  an  arm  of 
inordinate  size  and  strength  encircled  the 
Bonnie  Lassie,  whirled  her  up  out  of  a 

39 


Our  Square 

pit  of  blackness,  and  supported  her  through 
a  reeling  world.  At  her  ear  a  quietly  ur- 
gent voice  kept  insisting  that  she  must  walk 
—  walk — walk,  and  not  let  herself  lapse. 
A  shock  jolted  her  brain.  It  was  the  smell 
of  ammonia.  The  darkness  dissipated,  be- 
came an  almost  intolerable  light,  and  she 
found  herself  seated  opposite  Cyrus  the 
Gaunt  at  a  polished  metal  table  in  an  ice- 
cream parlor. 

"  Don't  let  go  of  my  hand,"  she  whis- 
pered faintly. 

His  big,  reassuring  clasp  tightened. 
"  We  got  away  before  the  crowd  came," 
he  said.  "You  have  wonderful  nerve.  I 
thought  you  were  gone." 

"  Don't  speak  of  it,"  she  shuddered.  "  I 
can't  stand  it." 

Not  until,  after  a  slow,  silent  walk,  they 
were  seated  on  a  bench  in  Our  Square 
could  she  gather  her  resolution  for  the 
dreadful  question.  "  Did  you  kill  him  ? " 

"Good  Lord,  no!" 
40 


Whirled  her  up  out  of  a  pit  of  blackness,  and  supported  her 
through  a  reeling  world 


Our  Square 

«  But  —  but  —  you  shot  him  \  " 
"  Yes,  with  this."    He  thrust  his  hand 
in  his  pocket,  and  again,  as  she  closed  her 
eyes  against  the  sight,  she  caught  faintly  the 
pungent  stimulus  that  had  revived  her. 
"What  is  it?" 

"  Ammonia-pop.  Model  of  my  own." 
Her  eyes  flew  open,  the  color  flooded 
into  her  cheeks,  but  receded  again.  "  He 
might  have  killed  you  ! "  she  exclaimed. 
"  I  thought  when  you  turned  away  and  I 
saw  the  dagger  that —  Oh,  how  could  you 
take  such  a  desperate  chance?" 

"  Just  fool-in-the-head,  I  guess.  I  sup- 
posed he  was  through.  Don't  know  that 
breed,  you  see.  But  for  you,  he  'd  have 
got  me." 

"But  for  you"  she  retorted,  "I   don't 
know  what  might  have  happened  to  me. 
How  came  you  to  be  down  in  that  slum?" 
"Oh,"  said  he  carelessly,  "  I  prowl." 
"As  far  away  as  that?"   She  looked  at 
him,  sidelong. 


Our  Square 


"  All  around.  I  know  that  neighbor- 
hood like  a  book." 

"  What 's  the  name  of  that  alley  ?  " 

"  Alley  ?  Er  —  what  alley  ? " 

"  Mr.  Cyrus  Murphy,  how  long  have 
you  been  following  me  about  ?  " 

He  turned  an  unpicturesque,  dull  red. 
"  Well,  that 's  no  place  for  a  girl  alone," 
he  growled. 

"  You  know,  one  evening  I  thought  I 
saw  you,  down  near  Avenue  C,  but  I 
could  n't  be  sure.  Was  it?" 

"  It  might  have  been,"  he  grudged. 
"  Avenue  C  is  a  public  thoroughfare." 

"And  you've  been  guarding  me,"  she 
murmured. 

Her  eyes  brooded  on  him,  and  the  color 
was  rising  in  her  face  to  match  his.  But, 
while  Cyrus  blushed  like  a  brick,  the  Bon- 
nie Lassie  blushed  like  the  hue  of  flying 
clouds  after  sunset. 

"  Why  don't  you  take  a  policeman  ? " 
he  blurted  out.  "  If  anything  should  hap- 
42 


Our  Square 

pen  to  you  —  It  isn't  safe,"  he  concluded 
lamely. 

"  Not  even  when  I  'm  chaperoned  with 
an  ammonia  popgun  ?"  she  smiled.  "Why 
do  you  carry  that?" 

"  For  dogs.  Dogs  don't  always  like  me. 
It 's  my  clothes,  I  suppose." 

"  Any  dog  who  would  n't  like  and  trust 
you  on  sight,"  she  pronounced  with  in- 
tense conviction,  "  is  an  imbecile." 

He  smiled  his  acknowledgment.  At 
that  her  face  altered. 

"  There  you  go,  smiling  once  more," 
she  said  fretfully.  "  You  do  it  very  seldom, 
but  —  " 

"  I  'm  always  smiling,  deep  inside  me, 
at  you,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  But  when  you  smile  outside,  it  makes 
you  so  different.  And  I  find  I  've  done  you 
all  wrong." 

"  Are  you  still  sculping  me  ?  "  he  asked 
in  surprise. 

"I  —  I  have  been,  but  I  stopped."    She 

43 


Our  Square 

paused,  trying  again  to  think  of  him  as 
merely  a  model,  and  found,  to  her  discom- 
fiture, that  it  caused  a  queer,  inexplicable 
little  pang  deep  inside  her  heart.  Never- 
theless, the  artist  rose  overpoweringly 
within  her  at  his  next  question. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  sit  for  you  again  ?  " 

"  Oh,  would  you  ?  Now  ?" 

He  glanced  at  the  church  clock.  "  I  've 
forty-seven  minutes,"  he  said. 

Much  may  be  accomplished  in  forty- 
seven  minutes.  In  the  studio  she  sprang 
to  her  work  with  a  sort  of  contained  fury. 
And  as  the  eager,  intent  eyes  regarded  him 
with  an  ever-increasing  impersonality,  a 
pain  was  born  in  his  heart  and  grew  and 
burned,  because  to  this  woman  who  had 
clung  to  him  in  the  abandonment  of  mor- 
tal weakness  but  an  hour  before,  whose 
pulses  had  leaped  and  fluttered  for  his  peril, 
he  had  become  only  a  subject  for  exploi- 
tation, something  to  further  her  talent, 
wax  to  her  deft  hand. 

44 


Our  Square 

Perhaps  he  had  been  that  since  the  first. 
Well,  what  right  had  he  to  expect  any- 
thing more? 

Nothing  of  this  reached  the  absorbed 
worker.  She  was  intent  upon  her  model's 
mouth  and  chin,  whereon  she  had  caught 
the  sense  of  significant  changes.  Had  she 
but  once  come  forth  from  her  absorption 
to  see  and  interpret  the  man's  eyes,  she 
might  have  known.  For  only  in  the  eyes 
does  a  brave  man's  suffering  show;  the  rest 
of  his  face  he  may  control  beyond  betrayal. 
Something  happily  restrained  her  from 
offering  payment  as  usual,  when  she  finally 
threw  the  cloth  over  the  unfinished  sketch. 

"  You  spoke  of  dogs  not  liking  your 
clothes,"  she  said  lightly.  "  Do  you  always 
sleep  in  them  ?" 

"  Oh,  no.  They  sleep  on  the  floor  at 
the  foot  of  my  bed  and  keep  watch.  May 
I  have  them  pressed?" 

"  It  would  be  an  interesting  change. 
But  why  ask  my  permission?" 

45 


Our  Square 

Because  you  told  me  once  to  come  « as 


is."' 


"So  I  did,"  she  laughed.  "But  that 
was  before  you  were  an  honest  working- 
man.  Go  and  get  pressed  out." 

"  No  more  use  for  me  as  a  model?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  say  that." 

"  But  I  'm  to  see  you  sometimes  ? "  he 
persisted. 

"  How  could  it  be  otherwise,  with  you 
doing  patrol  duty  in  front  of  my  door?" 
she  twinkled. 

With  unnecessary  emphasis  she  shut  the 
door  upon  the  retiring  form  of  Cyrus  the 
Gaunt.  But  his  double,  already  inaliena- 
ble, returned  to  the  studio  with  her  and 
formed  a  severely  accusative  third  party  to 
her  dual  self-communion.  Said  the  woman 
within  her,  woefully :  "  I  must  n't  see  him 
again.  I  must  n't !  I  must  n't!"  Said  the 
sculptor  within  her,  exultingly :  "  I  've  got 
him.  I  've  got  what  I  wanted.  It 's  there 
and  I  've  fixed  it  forever."  Which  was  a 
46 


Our  Square 


mistake  of  the  sculptor's,  however  nearly 
right  or  wrong  the  woman  may  have  been. 

Thenceforward,  it  appeared  to  Cyrus 
the  Gaunt,  the  Bonnie  Lassie  exhibited  an 
increasing  tendency  toward  invisibility. 
When  he  did  see  her,  there  were  sure  to 
be  other  people  about,  and  she  seemed 
subdued  and  distrait.  Presently  the  suspi- 
cion dawned  upon  Cyrus  that  she  was 
avoiding  him.  Being  a  simple,  direct  per- 
son, he  laid  his  theory  before  her.  She 
denied  it  with  unnecessary  heat ;  but  that 
did  n't  go  far  toward  rehabilitating  the  old 
cheerful  and  friendly  status.  Cyrus  the 
Gaunt,  despite  a  wage  which  assured  three 
excellent  meals  per  day,  began  to  grow 
gaunter.  Our  Square  commented  upon  it 
with  concern. 

There  came  a  time  when,  for  ten  con- 
secutive days,  Cyrus  the  Gaunt  never  set 
eyes  upon  the  Bonnie  Lassie,  nor  did  his 
ear  so  much  as  catch  a  single  lilt  of  her 
laughter.  At  the  end  of  that  period,  stroll- 

47 


Our  Square 


ing  moodily  past  his  now  flavorless  job 
full  two  hours  early,  he  beheld  mounting 
the  steps  of  the  funny  little  mansion  a 
heavy  male  figure,  clad  from  head  to  foot 
in  what  had  a  grisly  suggestion  of  profes- 
sional black.  The  sight  sent  a  chill  to 
Cyrus's  heart.  The  chill  froze  solid  when 
on  a  nearer  approach  to  the  house  he  heard 
the  sound  of  voices  within,  joined  in  a  slow 
chant.  Half-blind  and  shaking,  he  made 
his  way  to  the  rail  and  clung  there.  Slowly 
the  words  took  form  and  meaning,  and 
this  was  their  solemn  message:  — 

The  Good  Man, 

When-he-falleth-in-Love 

And-getteth-Snubbed, 

Breaketh  Forth  ln-to 

Tears  : 

But-the-Ungawdly  Careth  Notta 

Damn! 

For  Woman, 

She-is-but-  Vanity , 

Ay,  Verily,  and-False-C«r/r. 

And-the- Wooing  Thereof  Is 

Bitterness. 

For-he-Wasteth-his-Substance-Upon-Her, 

48 


Our  Square 


Taking-her-Pic-nics  and 

Balls. 

And  she  Danceth  with  some 

Oth-ther  Feller. 

Oh-hh  SLUSH  !  !  ! 

A  window-shade  floated  sideways,  re- 
vealing to  the  peerer's  gaze  a  gnome  with 
blue  ears  beating  out  the  tempo  with  the 
fire-tongs  for  a  quartette,  consisting  of  an 
aeroplane,  a  Salvation  Army  captain,  a 
white  rabbit,  and  an  Apache,  while  a  mot- 
ley crowd  circulated  around  them.  In  the 
intensity  of  his  relief,  Cyrus  the  Gaunt 
took  a  great  resolve  :  "  Invited  or  not  in- 
vited, I  'm  going  to  that  party." 

MacLachan's  "Home  of  Fashion"  on 
the  corner  was  long  since  dark,  but  Cyrus's 
pedal  fantasia  on  the  panels  brought  forth 
the  indignant  proprietor. 

"What  have  you  got  for  me  to  go  to  a 
fancy  party  in,  Mac  ? "  demanded  his  dis- 
turber. 

"Turnverein  or  Pansy  Social  Circle?" 
inquired  the  practical  tailor. 

49 


Our  Square 


"Neither.  A  dead  swell  party." 

"  Go  as  ye  are-rr,  ye  fule ! "  said  the 
Scot,  and  slammed  the  door. 

"Perfectly  simple,"  said  Cyrus  the 
Gaunt.  "  I  '11  do  it." 

He  hastened  around  to  Schwartz's  to 
wash  his  hands  and  smut  his  face  artisti- 
cally. 

Ill 

Upon  the  reiterated  testimony  of  the 
Oldest  Inhabitant,  Our  Square  had  never 
before  witnessed  such  scenes  or  heard  such 
sounds  of  revelry  by  night  as  the  Bonnie 
Lassie's  surprise  party,  given  for  her  by  her 
friends  of  the  far-away  world.  None  of  us 
was  bidden  in  at  first,  as  the  Bonnie  Las- 
sie had  not  the  inviting  in  her  hands.  But 
to  her  —  little  loyalist  that  she  is  !  —  a  cele- 
bration without  her  own  neighbors  was  un- 
thinkable ;  so  she  sent  her  messengers  forth 
and  gathered  us  in  from  our  beds,  from 
Schwartz's,  from  Lavansky's  Pinochle  Par- 

5° 


Our  Square 


lors,  from  the  late  shift  of  the  "  Socialist 
Weekly  Battlecry,"  and  even  from  the 
Semi-Annual  Soiree  and  Ball  of  the  Sons 
of  Gentlemen  of  Goerck  Street,  far  out  on 
our  boundaries  of  influence;  and  though 
we  wore  no  fancier  garb  than  our  best,  we 
made  a  respectable  showing,  indeed. 

Along  with  the  early  comers,  and  while 
Cyrus  the  Gaunt  was  still  putting  the  final 
touches  to  his  preparation,  there  appeared 
at  the  hospitable  door  an  unexpected  guest, 
a  woman  of  sixty  with  a  strong,  bent  fig- 
ure, and  a  square  face  lighted  by  gleaming 
eyes  with  fixed  lines  about  them.  The 
black-hued  Undertaker  who  had  consti- 
tuted himself  master  of  ceremonies  met 
her  at  the  door,  and  immediately  hustled 
her  within. 

"  While  I  have  not  the  privilege  of 
this  lady's  personal  acquaintance,"  he  an- 
nounced, "  I  have  the  honor  of  presenting, 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  eminent  and  pro- 
fessional chaperon,  Mrs.  Sparkles." 

51 


Our  Square 


The  newcomer  paused,  blinking  and  ir- 
resolute. "But  I  did  not  know — "  she 
began,  in  a  faintly  foreignized  accent. 

From  a  far  corner  the  Bonnie  Lassie 
spied  her,  and  flew  across  the  floor,  flushed, 
radiant,  and  confused.  "You!  "she  cried 
—  and  there  was  something  in  her  voice 
that  drew  upon  the  pair  curious  looks  from 
the  other  guests.  "Oh,  Madame!  Why 
did  n't  you  let  me  know  ? " 

The  newcomer  set  her  finger  to  her  lips. 
"I  am  incognita.  What  is  it  the  somber 
person  called  me?  Mrs.  Sparkles?  Yes." 
The  Bonnie  Lassie  nodded  her  compre- 
hension. "  If  I  had  known  that  you  were 
making  fete  this  evening  —  I  cannot  see 
your  work  now." 

"  Indeed,  you  can.  I  '11  shut  just  us  two 
into  the  studio.  They  won't  miss  me."  She 
gently  pushed  the  new  guest  through  a 
side  door,  which  she  closed  after  them. 
Confronted  with  the  little  sculptor's  work, 
the  visitor  moved  about  with  a  swift  cer- 

52 


Our  Square 


tainty  of  judgment,  praising  this  bit  with 
a  brief  word,  shrugging  her  shoulders  over 
that,  indicating  by  a  single  touch  of  the 
finger  the  salient  defect  of  another,  while 
her  hostess  followed  her  with  anxious  eyes. 

"Not  bad,"  murmured  the  critic.  "You 
have  learned  much.  What  is  under  that 
sheet?" 

"Experiments,"  answered  the  girl  re- 
luctantly. 

The  woman  swept  the  covering  aside. 
Beneath  were  huddled  a  number  of  studies, 
some  finished,  others  in  the  rough,  un- 
grouped. 

"All  the  same  subject,  tiest-ce-pas?" 

"Yes." 

The  visitor  examined  them  carefully. 
"Very  interesting.  Any  more  of  this?" 

"Some  notes  in  pencil." 

"  Let  me  see  them." 

The  Bonnie  Lassie  drew  out  and  sub- 
mitted a  sheaf  of  papers. 

"  You  have  done  very  badly  with  this," 

53 


Our  Square 

was  the  verdict,  after  concentrated  study. 
"  Or  else  —  you  have  worked  hard  and 
honestly  upon  it  ?  " 

"Harder  than  on  anything  I  've  done." 

"There  are  signs  of  that,  too.  What  is 
it  you  are  aiming  at  ?  What  is  the  subject? 
Inside,  I  mean  ? "  She  tapped  her  forehead 
and  regarded  with  her  luminous  stare  the 
eager  girl-face  before  her. 

"Why,  I  hardly  know.  At  first  it  was 
one  thing,  then  it  changed.  I  had  thought 
of  doing  him  as  '  The  Pioneer.*  '  Some- 
thing lost  beyond  the  ranges,'  you  know." 
The  woman  nodded.  "  Then  later,  I  wanted 
to  do  '  The  Last  American/  and  I  modeled 
him  for  that/' 

"Good!"  The  older  woman's  endorse- 
ment was  emphatic.  "  How  Lincoln-like 
the  formation  of  the  face  is,  here."  She 
touched  one  of  the  unfinished  bits.  "  That 's 
the  American  of  it.  Or  is  it?  Albrecht 
Diirer  did  the  same  thing  in  his  ideal 
Knight  four  centuries  ago.  You  know  it? 

54 


Our  Square 

It 's  like  a  portrait  of  Lincoln.  Did  you 
consciously  mould  that  line  in?" 

"Ah  ! "  The  girl  contemplated  her  own 
work  with  glowing  eyes.  "That's  the 
haunting  resemblance  I  felt  but  could  n't 
catch  when  I  first  saw  my  model." 

"  It  is  n't  in  most  of  these." 

"My  fault.  It  must  have  been  there, 
underneath,  all  the  time." 

"  Hm  !  You  consider  those  pretty  faith- 
ful studies?" 

"As  faithful  as  I  could  make  them.  But 
I  have  n't  been  able  to  catch  and  fix  the  face. 
It 's  most  provoking,"  she  added  fretfully, 
"but  I  'm  constantly  having  to  remodel." 

Before  she  had  finished,  the  elderly 
woman's  swift  hands  were  busy  with  the 
figures,  manipulating  them  here  and  there, 
until  they  were  presently  set  out  in  a  sin- 
gle row  with  the  sketches  interspersed. 
"  Read  from  left  to  right,"  she  said  curtly. 
"  Is  not  that  the  order  of  time  in  which 
the  work  was  done?" 

55 


Our  Square 

"  Pure  magic !  "  breathed  the  girl.  "  How 
could  you  know  ?" 

"How  could  I  help  but  know?  Child, 
child!  Can't  you  see  you  have  the  biggest 
subject  ready  to  your  hand  that  any  artist 
could  pray  for  ? "  The  girl  looked  her 
question  mutely.  "  The  man  is  making 
himself.  How?  God  knows  —  the  God 
that  helps  all  real  work.  Look!  See  how 
the  lines  of  grossness  there"  —  she  touched 
the  first  figure  in  her  marshaled  line  — 
"  have  planed  out  here."  The  swift  finger 
found  a  later  study.  "  How  could  you  miss 
it !  The  upbuilding  of  character,  resolve, 
manhood,  and  with  it  all  something  gentler 
and  finer  softening  it.  You  have  half-done 
it,  but  only  half,  because  you  have  not  un- 
derstood. Why  have  you  not  understood  ? " 

"  Because  I  'm  not  a  genius.'* 

"Who  knows?  To  have  half-done  it  is 
much.  The  master-genius,  Life,  has  been 
carving  that  face  out  before  your  eyes.  You 
need  but  follow.*'' 


"  Read  from  left  to  right"  she  said  curtly 


Our  Square 


"Tell  me  what  to  do." 

"Leave  it  alone  for  six  months.  Come 
back  and  take  the  face  as  it  will  be 
then." 

"  'Then'  will  be  too  late,"  said  the  girl 
in  a  low  voice. 

"What!"  cried  the  critic,  startled. 
"Your  model  isn't  dying,  is  he?" 

"Oh,  no.  I  —  I  had  something  else  in 
mind." 

"  Dismiss  it.  Have  nothing  else  in  mind 
but  to  finish  this."  She  paused.  "I  have 
seen  all  I  need  to.  Let  us  return  to  your 
friends." 

Hardly  had  the  hostess  seated  her  guest 
in  the  most  comfortable  corner  of  the  big 
divan  when  there  was  a  stir  at  the  door, 
and  a  rangy,  big-boned  figure,  clad  in  the 
unmistakable  garb  of  honest  labor,  ap- 
peared, blinking  a  little  at  the  lights.  In- 
stantly the  Undertaker,  in  his  role  of  offi- 
cial announcer,  dashed  forward  to  greet 
him.  "Gentlemen  and  ladies,"  he  pro- 

57 


Our  Square 

claimed,  "introducing  Mr.  Casey  Jones, 
late  of  the  Salt  Lake  Line." 

"Sing  it,  you  Son  of  Toil! "  shouted 
somebody,  and  Cyrus  the  Gaunt  promptly 
obliged,  in  a  clear  and  robust  baritone,  lead- 
ing the  chorus  which  came  in  jubilantly. 

The  elderly  "Mrs.  Sparkles"  was  not 
interested  in  the  harmony;  but  she  was 
interested  in  the  face  of  her  hostess,  which 
had  flushed  a  startled  pink.  She  asked  a 
question  under  cover  of  the  music. 

"That  is  your  model,  is  it  not?" 

"Yes." 

"  What  is  he  in  real  life  ? " 

"As  you  see  him." 

"In  —  deed?  What  is  he  doing  it  for?" 

"Two  and  a  half  a  day,  I  believe." 

"Quite  enough.  But  why?" 

"I  never  asked  him."  And  the  Bonnie 
Lassie  tripped  over  to  her  newest  guest, 
leaving  her  next-to-newest  quite  busy  with 
thought. 

Owing  to  the  demands  upon  a  hostess, 

58 


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Cyrus  the  Gaunt  saw  very  little  of  her  in 
the  brief  hour  remaining  to  him.  One 
dance  he  succeeded  in  claiming. 

"You  see,"  he  remarked,  "I  came  to 
your  party  anyway,  although  uninvited." 

"I  didn't  give  it.  It  was  a  surprise," 
she  explained.  "But  the  job?" 

"They've  put  me  on  an  hour  later." 

"You  still  like  it?" 

"  It  limits  one  socially  more  than  being 
a  model,"  he  replied  solemnly. 

"But  you  are  sticking  to  it  ?"  she  per- 
sisted. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  'm  sticking  to  it,  all  right." 

"  Even  if —  No  matter  what  happens  ?" 

"What  is  going  to  happen?"  he  asked 
gravely. 

"Nothing,"  she  said  hurriedly.  "But 
it's  the  job  for  the  job's  sake  with  you 
now,  is  n't  it?" 

"  I  like  the  feel  of  it,  if  that 's  what  you 
mean.  The  feel  of  being  competent  to  hold 
it  down." 

59 


Our  Square 


She  nodded  with  content  in  her  eyes. 
But  he  was  troubled. 

"You  had  something  in  mind — "  he 
began,  when  another  partner  claimed  her, 
while  he  was  dragged  off  to  assist  in  an 
improvised  glee-club. 

His  time  was  up  all  too  soon,  and  with- 
out chance  of  a  further  word  from  her, 
other  than  a  formal  farewell.  In  the  little 
rear  hallway  whither  he  had  made  his  way 
through  his  protesting  fellow-revelers,  he 
reached  up  for  his  coat,  and  felt  something 
lightly  brush  the  top  of  his  head.  He  looked 
up.  It  was  a  sprig  of  mistletoe.  At  the  same 
moment  two  firm  hands  closed  over  his 
eyes,  and  light,  swift  lips  just  grazed  his 
cheek. 

Cyrus  the  Gaunt  fell  a-trembling.  He 
turned  slowly,  and  found  himself  confront- 
ing a  total  stranger.  The  stranger  had  gray 
hair  and  a  tired  face  lighted  by  crinkly  eyes. 
"Oh!"  said  Cyrus  the  Gaunt  with  an  ir- 
repressible bitterness  of  disappointment. 
60 


Our  Square 


"Frankness,"  observed  his  salutant, 
"may  or  may  not  be  a  compliment  to  the 
object  of  it."  Cyrus  remained  mute.  "Who 
did  you  hope  it  was  ? "  Silence  seemed  still 
the  best  policy.  "  If  you  are  offended  "  — 
the  eyes  twinkled  with  added  keenness  — 
"  I  will  apologize  honorably." 

"  Let  me  do  it  for  you,"  said  Cyrus  the 
Gaunt  politely,  and  kissed  the  unknown 
square  upon  the  lips. 

She  drew  back.  "  Well ! "  she  began  ; 
then  she  laughed.  "The  entente  cordiale 
having  been  established,  what  are  you  doing 
here,  Cyrus  Staten  ? " 

He  gasped  and  gaped.  "Do  I  know 
you?" 

"  Having  neither  memory  nor  manners, 
you  do  not.  But  I  spent  weeks  at  your 
country  place  when  you  were  a  boy,  paint- 
ing your  father.  Permit  me  to  introduce 
myself."  And  she  gave  a  name  so  great  that 
even  Cyrus's  comprehensive  carelessness  of 
art  was  not  ignorant  of  it. 
61 


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" Great  snakes ! "  he  ejaculated.  "I  — 
I  'm  sorry  I  kissed  you." 

"  Oh,  I  'm  human.  I  rather  liked  it," 
she  chuckled,  "  even  though  I  am  old  and 
stately.  But  how  have  you  contrived  to  pre- 
serve your  incognito  ? " 

"  Easy  enough.  This  is  another  world. 
Look  out !  "  he  added  as  the  curtain  be- 
hind them  moved.  "Somebody 's  coming." 

The  hanging  swung  aside  and  the  Bon- 
nie Lassie  emerged.  "  Oh  !  "  she  said  in 
surprise.  "Do  you  know  each  other?" 

"We  were  becoming  acquainted  when 
you  interrupted,"  replied  the  woman.  She 
turned  a  disconcerting  gaze  upon  her  host- 
ess. "  Where  did  you  get  him  ? "  she  de- 
manded, exactly  as  if  Cyrus  were  n't  there. 

"Oh,  please!"  cried  the  girl. 

"  Don't  mind  me,"  said  Cyrus  politely, 
sensible  that  something  was  going  on  which 
he  didn't  grasp.  "I'm  used  to  it."  He 
turned  to  the  mighty  artist.  "  You  see,  in 
real  life  I  'm  a  studio  model." 
62 


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"Are  you?"  retorted  the  genius.  "I 
thought  you  were  an  engineer.  Now  I  be- 
gin to  suspect  you  are  a  fraud.  Well,  I 
have  something  to  say  to  Miss  Prim,  here. 
Run  you  away  and  play  with  your  job." 

"  So  that 's  your  young  Lincoln,"  she 
observed,  as  Cyrus  moodily  accepted  his 
dismissal,  and  passed  out. 

"He  does  n't  know  it." 

"You  have  missed  even  more  than  I 
thought,  in  him." 

"I  've  done  my  best,"  said  the  girl  dis- 
piritedly. "  He  's  too  big  for  little  me." 

"  Hm  !  You  have  n't  told  me  yet  where 
you  got  him." 

" '  The  wild  wind  blew  him  to  my  close- 
barred  door,' "  quoted  the  girl. 

"  A  good  many  wild  winds  have  blown 
about  Cyrus  Staten  from  time  to  time." 

"Who?" 

"Cyrus  Staten;  don't  you  know  him?" 

"  No,  I  picked  him  up  from  the  bench 
in  Our  Square." 

63 


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"  Which  the  Statens  used  to  own,  by  the 
way.  Well,  thefaci/is  descensus  of  an  idle 
waster  from  the  world  of  white  lights  and 
black  shadows  to  a  park-bench  is  nothing 
new." 

"Does  he  look  like  an  idle  waster?" 

"He  does  not.  Therein  lies  a  miracle. 
What  is  he  doing  now  ?" 

"  Running  the  steam-roller,  outside." 
The  face  of  the  girl  melted  into  lovely 
and  irrepressible  mirth. 

"Ah!  That  explains  much.  But  not  all. 
What  is  your  part  in  this?" 

"You  have  seen  it."  She  nodded  back- 
ward toward  the  studio. 

"Not  that.  As  a  woman?  What  have 
you  been  doing  to  that  boy  to  make  him 
what  he  is?" 

The  girl  took  her  soft  lip  grievously 
between  her  teeth  for  a  moment  before 
answering.  "  I  've  been  playing  my  child's 
tricks  with  a  real  man — and  now  I  'm  be- 
ing sorry." 

64 


Our  Square 

"And  paying  for  it?" 

The  Bonnie  Lassie's  head  drooped. 

"Is  he  paying  for  it,  too?" 

"No." 

"  No  ?  Well,  when  I  played  a  little  sur- 
prise on  him  and  kissed  him  under  the 
mistletoe,  I  thought  that  tall  and  massive 
youth  was  going  to  faint  away  like  a  school- 
miss  in  my  supporting  arms,  until  he  saw 
who  it  was.  What  do  you  suppose  his  ex- 
pectations—  " 

"You  had  no  right  to  take  such  an  ad- 
vantage," flashed  the  girl,  turning  crimson. 

"So?"  The  great  woman  smiled.  "But 
I  think  my  own  thoughts.  When  one  pays, 
or  the  other  pays,  that  is  well.  It  is  the 
chance  of  the  play.  But  when  both  pay  — 
oh,  that  is  wrong,  wrong,  wrong  as  wrong 
can  be !  " 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  said  the  girl,  very  low. 
"There  is  a  previous  debt."  And  she  turned 
aside  a  face  so  woe-begone  that  her  inter- 
rogator forbore  further  pressure. 

65 


Our  Square 


"At  least,"  she  said,  "the  artist  must 
complete  the  work,  at  whatever  cost  to 
the  woman.  You  will  finish  that?"  She 
jerked  her  head  toward  the  studio. 

"I  —  I  suppose  so.   If  I  can." 

On  the  way  home  the  genius  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Cyrus  the  Gaunt  upon  his  tri- 
umphal chariot,  and  halted  her  auto  the 
better  to  laugh.  As  the  lumbering,  clamor- 
ing monster  drew  opposite,  she  signaled. 
Cyrus  did  something  abstruse  to  the  mech- 
anism, which  groaned  and  clanked  itself 
into  stillness. 

"Young  man,"  she  hailed,  "I  have  a 
message  for  you." 

"From  whom?"  said  Cyrus  hopefully. 

"From  myself.  This  is  it:  Be  careful." 

"I  am,"  said  Cyrus  with  conviction, 
"  the  carefulest  captain  that  ever  ploughed 
the  stormy  pave." 

"Be  careful,"  she  repeated,  disregarding 
his  interpretation,  "  or  she  '11  make  a  man 
of  you  yet.  The  process  is  sometimes  pain- 
66 


Our  Square 


ful  —  like  most  creative  processes.  Home, 
Joseph." 

Many  of  the  Bonnie  Lassie's  outlander 
guests  passed  Cyrus  the  Gaunt  that  night, 
but  none  other  identified  or  noticed  him. 
The  latest  departures  were  two  heavily 
swathed  youths  who  paused  to  light  ciga- 
rettes in  the  lee  of  Cyrus's  iron  steed. 

"  Some  little  farewell  party,  was  n't  it?" 
the  engineer  overheard  them  say.  "  Why 
was  n't  the  happy  Bascom  there?" 

"  Not  back  from  Europe  yet.  I  under- 
stand Morris  Cartwright  fixed  things  up, 
and  the  engagement  is  to  be  formally  an- 
nounced on  his  return." 

"  It 's  a  shame,"  growled  the  first 
speaker.  "  Bascom 's  all  right,  but  he 's 
old  enough  to  be  her  father.  Wasn't  she 
a  dream  and  a  vision  to-night !  " 

"  It  was  one  of  those  legacy  engage- 
ments, I  believe.  Dead-father's-wish  sort 
of  thing.  All  right,  I  suppose,  so  long  as 
there  's  no  one  else.  WTho  was  the  engi- 

67 


Our  Square 

neer   guy  ?    He   seemed   to    be   a   reg'lar 
feller."  ' 

The  twain  passed  on,  leaving  Cyrus  the 
Gaunt  stiff  and  stricken  in  his  seat.  How 
he  got  through  the  next  hour  he  hardly 
knew.  He  remembered  vaguely  a  protest 
from  sundry  citizens  who  resented  being 
charged  off  the  cross-walks  by  a  zigzag- 
ging juggernaut,  a  query  from  Terry  the 
Cop  whether  he  was  off  his  feed,  and  the 
startled  face  of  old  man  Sittser,  who  paused 
to  pass  the  time  of  night  on  his  way  home 
from  the  late  shift  on  the  linotype  and  was 
incontinently  cursed  for  his  pains.  Full 
consciousness  of  the  practical  world  was 
brought  back  to  Cyrus  by  the  purring  of 
a  sleek  auto  close  at  hand  as  he  curved  out 
at  the  corner  for  his  straightaway  course. 
He  was  just  gathering  momentum  when 
he  caught  sight  of  the  Bonnie  Lassie's  face, 
white  and  wistful,  soft-eyed  and  miserable, 
confronting  darkness  and  vacancy  from 
within  the  luxurious  limousine. 
68 


Our  Square 

Well,  nobody  can  catch  a  sixty-horse- 
power motor-car  with  a  ten-ton  steam- 
roller. 

Cyrus,  to  do  him  justice,  tried  his  best. 
They  stopped  one  dollar  and  forty  cents 
out  of  his  Saturday's  envelope  for  what  he 
and  the  roller  did  to  the  barriers  and  lan- 
terns. By  the  time  he  had  swung  into  the 
cross-street,  trailing  wreckage,  the  Bonnie 
Lassie  was  out  of  sight  and  out  of  his  world. 


Winter  comes,  stern  and  sharp,  like  an 
unpaid  landlord,  to  Our  Square,  with  sleet 
and  gale  for  its  agents  of  eviction.  No 
longer  are  the  benches  blithe  with  the 
voice  of  love  or  play  or  gossip.  The  wind 
has  blown  them  all  away.  A  few  tenacious 
leaves  still  cling,  withered,  brown,  and 
clattering,  to  the  trees,  "  bare,  ruin'd 
choirs  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang," 
and  a  few  hardy  stragglers  beat  across  the 
69 


Our  Square 

unprotected  spaces,  just  to  maintain,  as  it 
were,  the  human  right  of  way  against  the 
gray  rigor  of  the  skies.  But,  for  the  most 
part,  we  of  Our  Square,  going  about  our 
concerns,  huddle  as  close  as  may  be  to  the 
lee  of  walls,  for  —  though  we  would  not 
for  the  world  have  it  known  —  many  of 
us  are  none  too  warmly  clad.  Behind  the 
blank  opaqueness  of  the  bordering  windows 
one  may  surmise  much  want  and  penury 
and  cold,  which,  also,  we  keep  to  ourselves. 
Our  Square  has  its  pride.  We  do  not  pub- 
lish our  trials. 

Perhaps  Cyrus  the  Gaunt  knew  as  much 
of  them  as  any.  For,  by  imperceptible 
gradations,  he  had  become  the  'confidant, 
the  judge,  the  arbiter  of  our  difficulties, 
and  the  friend  of  the  'shyest,  the  hardest, 
and  the  proudest  of  us  alike.  His  engine- 
seat  was  become  a  throne,  from  whence 
he  dispensed  every  good  thing  but  charity. 
That  word  and  all  that  follows  in  its  train 
he  hated.  Which  shows  that  he  had  learned 
70 


Our  Square 


Our  Square.  After  hours  he  would  "drop 
in,"  almost  secretly,  on  some  friend ;  and 
it  was  a  curious  coincidence  that  Cyrus's 
friends  were  chosen  apparently  on  the  basis 
of  need  and  distress.  He  had  that  rare 
knack  of  helping  out  without  involving 
the  aided  one  in  the  coils  of  obligation. 
There  is  nothing  Our  Square  wouldn't 
have  done  for  Cyrus  the  Gaunt.  I  believe 
he  could  even  have  been  elected  alderman. 
Winter  drove  Cyrus  from  his  perch  and 
put  a  brake  on  the  thunder-wagon  before 
the  job  was  quite  finished.  There  still  re- 
mained some  final  repairs  which;must  now 
wait  for  the  spring,  on  the  side  where  the 
Bonnie  Lassie's  little  house  stood,  bleak  and 
desolate.  Not  wholly  deserted,  however, 
for  one  brave  and  happy  dancer  still  stuck 
to  her  post  in  the  window,  lifting  a  thrilled 
face  to  the  sky.  Other  employment  claimed 
Cyrus  the  Gaunt  until  his  iron  steed  should 
come  out  of  the  stable;  a  day  job  on  a  sta- 
tionary engine  around  in  Pike  Street.  Our 


Our  Square 

Square  remarked  with  concern  that  the  in- 
door employment  did  n't  seem  to  suit  Cyrus 
the  Gaunt.  He  became  gaunter  and  thinner 
and  more  melancholy-looking,  and  more 
than  once  he  was  seen  on  wild  nights, 
when  nobody  was  supposed  to  be  out  late, 
staring  at  the  now  quite  unembarrassed 
house  with  the  quaint  little  door  and  the 
broad  vestibule.  But  though  the  light  and 
cheer  that  Our  Square  had  seen  grow  in 
Cyrus's  face  in  the  early  days  of  his  job, 
were  graying  over,  there  increased  the  new 
understanding  and  sympathy  and  determi- 
nation, in  lines  that  he  had  put  there  him- 
self in  the  building  of  his  new  manhood. 
Thus,  only,  in  this  perplexing  world,  does 
a  man  lift  himself  by  his  own  boot-straps. 
Though  Cyrus  the  Gaunt  could  boast  a 
thousand  friends,  he  had  accepted  but  one 
intimate.  That  was  MacLachan  the  tailor. 
Every  day  they  lunched  on  frankfurters 
and  kohlrabi  at  Schwartz's.  Thither  Cyrus 
was  wont  to  have  his  scanty  mail  sent  from 
72 


Our  Square 


the  house  where  he  lodged.  One  blustery 
December  day  the  tailor  arrived  late,  to 
find  his  friend  fingering  a  pink  slip  of 
paper,  of  suggestive  appearance. 

"  Ye  '11  have  been  airnin'  a  bit  ootside  ! " 
commented  MacLachan. 

Cyrus  flipped  the  paper  over  to  him. 

"  Save  us !  "  cried  the  awe-stricken  Scot. 
"  It 's  a  thousan'  dollars.  All  in  the  one 
piece ! " 

"Two  months  overdue.  He  did  n't  have 
my  address,  I  suppose." 

"Ha'e  ye  been  drawin'  a  lottery?" 

"  No.  It 's  a  bet.  Also  my  release.  I  'd 
almost  forgotten.  My  time  's  up." 

"Ye  '11  not  be  leavin'  us?"  said  the  tailor. 

Cyrus  avoided  his  eyes.  "  I  'm  through, 
Mac,"  he  said  dully.  "  It 's  no  use.  It 's 
not  worth  while.  Nothing  's  worth  while." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  "  Mon,"  said 
MacLachan  finally,  "  ha'e  ye  tho't  what 
his  '11  mean  to  Our  Square?" 

Cyrus  the  Gaunt  thought.  Behind  the 

73 


Our  Square 

curtain  of  his  impenetrable  face  there 
passed  a  panorama  of  recent  memories; 
events  which  had,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
career,  made  him  one  with  the  fabric  of 
life.  Faces  appealed  to  him ;  hands  were 
outstretched  to  him  confidently  for  the 
friendly  help  that  he  could  give  so  well ; 
the  voices  of  the  children  hailed  him  as  a 
fellow;  the  baseball  team  which  did  most 
of  its  practice  at  noon  on  the  asphalt 
claimed  a  corner  of  his  memory ;  his  ears 
rang  with  the  everyday  greetings  of  his  own 
people,  and  another  panorama,  summoned 
up  by  the  pink  slip,  faded  away.  Cyrus 
folded  the  check  and  put  it  carefully  in  the 
pocket  of  his  overalls. 

"  Ye  '11  be  stayin'  here,"  said  MacLachan 
contentedly,  having  read  his  expression. 

Cyrus  nodded.  Then  the  tailor's  dour- 
ness  fell  from  him  for  the  moment.  He 
laid  a  hand  on  his  friend's  shoulder.  "  Lad- 
die," he  said,  "  the  little  bronze  dancer  is 
in  the  window  yet." 

74 


Our  Square 


Cyrus  turned  a  haggard  face  to  him. 
"  I  know,"  he  said. 

"Do  ye  make  nothin'  o'  that?" 

"Nothing.  You  know  why  —  what  she 
went  away  for." 

"I  ha'e  haird." 

"  Well,  I  'm  learning  to  forget." 

"The  little  bronze  dancer  is  in  the  win- 
dow yet,"  repeated  the  obstinate  Scot. 

How  Cyrus  won  through  that  long  win- 
ter is  his  own  affair.  Our  Square  respects 
other  people's  troubles.  It  asked  no  ques- 
tions. Finally  winter  broke  and  fled  before 
a  southeast  wind  full  of  fragrance,  and  the 
trees  began  to  whisper  important  tidings 
to  each  other ;  and  a  pioneer  butterfly  of 
the  deepest,  most  luminous  purple-black, 
with  buff  edges  to  its  wings,  arrived  and 
led  the  whole  juvenile  populace  such  a 
chase  as  surely  never  was  since  the  Pied 
Piper  fluted  his  seductions  long  ago ;  and 
the  benches  came  out  of  their  long  retreat, 
fresh-painted,  to  stand  sturdy  and  stiff  in 

75 


Our  Square 


their  old  places;  and  so  did  Cyrus's  thun- 
der-wagon, whereon  he  perched  nightly 
once  more,  and  was  even  more  than  be- 
fore the  taciturn,  humorous,  kindly,  secret, 
friendly  adviser  to  all  and  sundry. 

Then,  one  crisp  March  evening  he  be- 
came aware  of  a  strong,  bent,  feminine 
figure  beckoning  him  from  the  curbstone. 
Clanging  to  a  halt,  he  heard  a  voice,  un- 
forgettable through  its  tinge  of  foreign 
accent,  say :  — 

"How  do  you  do?  I  have  been  seeing 
your  face  all  through  my  travels."  Cyrus 
took  off  his  working-cap  and  shook  hands. 
"  So  I  have  come  back  to  look  at  it.  It 's 
thin.  Would  you  like  to  be  painted  ? " 

"  I  don't  think  so,  thank  you.  I  've  been 
sculped  within  an  inch  of  my  life." 

"  So  I  have  understood,"  said  the  Very 
Great  Woman  with  a  smile  not  devoid  of 
sympathy.  "  You  are  not  done  with  it  yet. 
She  is  coming." 

The  face  of  Cyrus  the  Gaunt  lighted 


Our  Square 


marvelously.  "  Coming  back  to  Our 
Square?"  he  cried.  Then  the  light  faded. 
"But--" 

"But  me  no  buts.  She  is  coming.  I  did 
it.  I  found  that  she  had  never  finished  you. 
So  I  told  her  that  if  she  did  not  come  back 
and  finish,  I  would  take  you  away  from 
her  and  finish  you  myself.  And,  oh,  I  am 
as  bad  a  sculptor  as  I  am  a  good  painter 
—  almost ! "  Her  laughter  rang  in  the  chill 
air.  "  So  she  comes.  And  I  have  traveled 
all  the  way  to  this  impossible  spot  to  play 
traitor.  The  question  is  :  Are  you  a  man  ? 
You  look  it,  at  last ! " 

"The  question  is —  Will  you  answer 
me  one?" 

"No!  No!  No!  No!  No!  Put  your 
questions  where  they  belong.  Farewell, 
my  Phaethon  of  the  Slums." 

The  world  was  mad  with  the  wine  of 
the  wind  the  night  the  Bonnie  Lassie  came 
back  to  Our  Square.  All  our  trees  waved 

77 


Our  Square 


their  lean  arms  in  welcome  and  sent  down 
little  buds  as  messengers  of  joy  over  her  re- 
turn. Of  living  welcomers  there  was  none, 
for  the  gale  had  swept  all  humans  before 
it,  except  Terry  the  Cop,  and  he  did  n't 
recognize  her,  from  the  distance,  in  her 
other-worldly  raiment.  That  must  have 
cost  her  a  pang.  Unnoticed  she  crept  into 
the  little,  old,  quaint,  friendly  house,  and 
its  doors  closed  behind  her  like  the  reas- 
surance of  a  friendly  arm.  She  set  herself 
in  the  dark  window  where  the  blithe  dancer 
still  tripped  it,  faithful  and  lonely,  and 
waited  for  Cyrus  the  Gaunt.  But  when  she 
saw  his  face,  the  Bonnie  Lassie  did  n't  sculp. 
She  cried. 

Cyrus  mounted  to  his  seat  and  pulled  the 
lever  over.  The  engine  was  running  badly 
that  night,  and  the  wind  almost  blew  him 
from  his  perch.  Aside  from  the  improba- 
bility that  the  little  sculptor  would  brave 
such  weather,  the  charioteer  was  presently 
so  immersed  in  his  own  immediate  con- 

78 


Our  Square 

cerns  that  he  all  but  forgot  the  prospective 
visit.  When  he  had  brought  his  charge  to 
its  senses  and  reduced  it  to  some  control, 
he  was  interrupted  by  the  plight  of  a  be- 
lated push-cart  woman,  who  was  dragging 
anchor  and  drifting  fast  to  leeward  under 
the  furious  impulsion  of  the  nor'easter. 
Cyrus  had  just  dragged  her  almost  from 
under  his  ponderous  wheels,  when  a  beam 
flashed  in  his  eyes,  and  he  looked  up  to  see 
a  truck  close  upon  them.  His  yell  split  the 
darkness.  The  truck-driver,  with  a  mighty 
wrench,  swung  his  vehicle  sharp  to  the  left, 
and  up  on  the  sidewalk. 

The  uptilted  lights  shone  full  into  the 
lower  window  of  the  little,  old,  friendly 
house.  Pressed  against  that  window  Cyrus 
saw  the  apparition  of  a  tear-softened,  des- 
olate visage.  Reason,  prudence,  and  pro- 
priety deserted  their  posts  in  his  brain 
simultaneously.  A  dozen  long-legged  leaps 
carried  him  as  far  as  the  vestibule  of  the 
little  house.  There  his  knees  basely  weak- 

79 


Our  Square 

ened.  Perhaps  her  heart  divined  his  step 
and  sent  her  forth  to  meet  him ;  or  perhaps 
it  was  his  old  ally,  Chance,  that  brought 
her  into  the  vestibule  as  he  stood  there 
shaking. 

"  Oh  ! "  she  cried,  and  shrank  back  into 
a  corner,  with  a  deprecatory  movement, 
which  to  him  was  infinitely  pathetic. 

"  I  'm  sorry,"  said  Cyrus.  "  I  saw  your 
face  and  thought  you  were  in  trouble.  If 
—  if  you  wanted  me  to  sit  for  you  again," 
he  said  composedly,  "  I  should  be  very  glad 
to,  until  you  »ve  finished  your  sketch." 

"Oh,  no.  I  could  n't  ask  you.  I  could  n't 
think  of — after  —  what  —  what  —  "  Her 
voice  waned  into  silence. 

"  Don't  feel  that  way  at  all,"  he  encour- 
aged her  with  resolved  cheerfulness.  "  I 
can  be  a  model  and  nothing  more,  again, 
I  assure  you." 

Her  upturned  eyes  implored  him. 
"Don't  be  cruel,"  she  said. 

"  Cruel  ? "  he  repeated  wonderingly. 
80 


Our  Square 


"  Not  at  all.  I  '11  be  polite.  It  is  n't  too 
late  to  offer  my  best  wishes.  Though  I  'm 
not  sure  I  know  the  name." 

"What  name?" 

"Your  —  your  married  name." 

"  Then  you  don't  know  ? "  she  gasped. 

The  brain  of  Cyrus  the  Gaunt  suddenly 
went  numb.  "  I  know  you  went  away  from 
us  to  get  married." 

"  I  did,"  she  quavered.  "  But  I  could  n't. 
I  —  I  —  I  tried  to  make  myself  go  through 
with  it.  I  could  n't.  No  woman  could 
when  —  when  —  "  Her  voice  trembled 
into  silence. 

A  boisterous  back-draft  of  the  tempest 
thrust  its  way  through  the  door  and  puffed 
out  the  little  vestibule  light.  With  a  sense 
of  irreparable  loss  impending  he  felt,  rather 
than  heard,  her  moving  from  him  into  the 
blackness  of  the  outer  world.  Yet  his  mind 
seemed  clogged  and  chained  as  he  strove 
to  grasp  the  meaning  of  what  she  had  said 
—  or  was  it  what  she  had  left  unsaid? 

81 


Our  Square 


And  in  a  moment  she  would  be  gone  for- 
ever. 

Suddenly  —  miracle  of  miracles ! — he 
felt  those  soft,  strong  hands  on  his  arm, 
and  heard  her  sobbing  appeal :  "  Oh,  Cyrus ! 
Are  n't  you  ever  going  to  smile  at  me  in- 
side again?" 

His  arms  went  out.  The  Bonnie  Lassie's 
hands  slipped  up  to  his  shoulder.  The 
flower-face  pressed,  close  and  cold  and 
sweet,  against  his. 

"  Love  of  my  heart !  "  he  cried,  "  I  '11 
never  do  anything  else  all  my  life  long." , 

Summer  is  tyrant  in  Our  Square  now. 
The  leaves  droop,  flaccid  and  dusty,  on  the 
trees,  and  the  sun  gives  a  shrewish  wel- 
come to  the  faithful  who  still  cling  to  the 
benches.  Gone  is  Cyrus's  chariot  of  flame 
and  thunder.  The  work  is  done.  Gone, 
too,  is  Cyrus,  and  with  him  the  Bonnie 
Lassie,  after  a  wedding  duly  set  forth 
with  much  pomp  and  splendor  in  the 

82 


The  Bonnie  Lassie's  hands  slipped  up  to  his  shoulder 


Our  Square 

public  prints.    Among  those  present  was 
Our  Square. 

So  now  the  little,  quaint,  old,  friendly 
house  stands  vacant,  with  eager  sunbeams 
darting  about  it  in  search  of  entry.  Vacant 
but  not  cheerless,  for  behind  the  panes, 
against  which  the  Bonnie  Lassie  once 
pressed  her  sorrowful  face,  troop  the  elfin 
company  of  her  dream-children,  the  danc- 
ing figurines.  Cyrus  the  Gaunt  would 
have  it  so.  He  deeded  her  the  house  as  a 
wedding-gift,  that  the  happy  dancers  might 
remain  with  us  lonely  and  unforgetting 
folk.  They  are  the  promise  that  one  day 
Our  Bonnie  Lassie  will  come  back  to  Our 
Square. 


The  Chair  that  Whispered 

An  Idyl  of  Our  Square 

SPRING  was  in  Our  Square  when  I  first 
saw  the  two  of  them.  They  sat  on  a 
bench  under  the  early  lilacs.  It  must  have 
been  the  beginning  of  it  all  for  them,  I 
think,  for  there  was  still  a  dim  terror  in 
her  face,  and  he  gestured  like  one  arguing 
stormily.  At  the  last  she  smiled  and  drew 
a  cluster  of  the  lilac  bloom  down  to  her 
cheek.  It  was  not  deeper-hued  than  her 
eyes,  nor  fresher  than  her  youth.  They 
rose  and  passed  me,  alone  on  my  bench, 
and  I,  who  am  wise  in  courtships,  having 
watched  so  many  bud  and  blossom  on  the 
public  seats  of  Our  Square,  saw  that  this 
was  no  wooing,  but  some  other  persuasion, 
though  what  I  could  not  guess. 

So  those  two  drifted  out  of  sight;   out 
of  mind,  too,  for  life  in  our  remote,  un- 

84 


The  Chair  that  Whispered 

considered,  and  slum-circled  little  park  is 
a  complex  and  swiftly  changing  actuality, 
and  it  crowds  in  with  many  pressures  upon 
a  half-idle  old  pedagogue  like  myself.  It 
was  the  Little  Red  Doctor  who,  weeks 
later,  recalled  the  episode,  one  blistering 
evening  of  the  summer's  end.  He  captured 
me  as  I  emerged  from  the  "penny-circu- 
lator" with  my  thumb  in  a  book. 

"  What  are  we  ruining  our  eyes  with 
to-night  ?  "  he  demanded. 

I  held  up  the  treasure. 

"<  Victory,'  "  he  read.  "Good!  He'll 
like  Conrad." 

Perceiving  what  was  expected,  I  ful- 
filled the  requirements  by  asking:  "Who 
will  like  Conrad?" 

"  The  Gnome." 

I  remembered  that  I  had  not  seen  Leon 
Coventry  since  the  day  he  passed  me  with 
the  girl  who  had  youth  and  spring  and 
terror  in  her  face. 

"  Am  I  to  loan  it  to  him  ? " 

85 


Our  Square 


"  You  're  to  read  it  to  him." 

"  When  ? " 

"To-night.   It's  your  turn  to  sit  up." 

"Is  the  Gnome  ill?" 

"  Worse." 

"Mad?" 

"Haunted." 

"Since  when  has  your  practice  branched 
out  into  the  supernatural,  doctor?" 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,  his  trouble  is  physical 
too." 

"  Is  it  anything  that  a  simple  lay  mind 
could  grasp?" 

The  Little  Red  Doctor  grunted.  "  His 
legs  have  turned  to  lamp-wicking.  I  don't 
vouch  for  the  diagnosis.  It 's  his  own." 

"  Paralysis  ? "  I  hazarded. 

"  Grip,"  was  the  Little  Red  Doctor's 
curt  rejoinder. 

"  Don't  tell  me  that  grip  turns  a  young 
Hercules's  legs  to  lamp-wicks?"  I  ob- 
jected. 

"  Grip  does  if  the  young  Hercules's  legs 
86 


The  Chair  that  Whispered 

are  fools  enough  to  carry  him  out  and 
around  the  city  with  a  temperature  of  one- 
naught-four-point-two,"  retorted  the  Lit- 
tle Red  Doctor  with  bitter  exactitude. 
"  Under  such  conditions  grip  turns  to 
pneumonia.  And  pneumonia  is  the  favor- 
ite ally  of  my  old  friend,  Death." 

"  You  don't  mean  that  the  Gnome  is 
going  to  die  ?  " 

"  Not  of  pneumonia :  that  fight  was 
fought  out  some  weeks  ago.  But  what 
pneumonia  does  n't  do  to  a  young  Her- 
cules worry  may.  Another  aid  of  my  old 
friend,  Death,  worry  is.  That 's  a  bother- 
some Gnome,  tossing  about  in  the  heat 
with  his  sick  brain  full  of  plots  to  get 
away  and  no  legs  to  carry  'em  out.  His 
next  try  will  be  his  last." 

"Then  he  got  away  once?" 

"  On  all  fours.  As  far  as  the  sidewalk. 
There  Cyrus  the  Gaunt  and  the  Bonnie 
Lassie  found  him  and  brought  him  back. 
Cyrus  was  on  duty  again  last  night." 

87 


Our  Square 


"  I  began  to  see.  I  'm  to  be  watchdog. 
It's  No.  7,  isn't  it?  At  what  hour?'* 

"  No.  7.  Top  floor.  Nine  o'clock." 

"I'll  be  there." 

Thanks  for  neighborly  services,  which 
are  a  taken-for-granted  part  of  our  close- 
pressed  life,  are  not  deemed  good  form  in 
Our  Square.  The  Little  Red  Doctor  nodded 
and  prepared  to  pass  on  to  the  rounds 
of  his  unending  bout  with  his  old  friend 
and  antagonist,  Death.  I  detained  him. 

"Just  a  moment.  What  is  the  object  of 
the  Gnome's  excursions?  To  get  work?" 

"  No.  To  search." 

"For  what?" 

The  Little  Red  Doctor  moved  toward 
an  approaching  horse  car,  almost  the  last 
of  that  perishing  genus  in  New  York  City. 
"  Heaven  knows  !  "  he  called  back.  "  And 
Mac,  the  tailor,  at  least  suspects.  That's 
as  far  as  I  can  get." 

He  leaped  upon  the  bobtailed  vehicle, 
was  immediately  held  up  by  a  forehanded 


The  Chair  that  Whispered 

conductor,  and  too  tardily  bethought  him- 
self of  a  forgotten  point.  "  The  chair ! 
The  chair  ! "  he  bellowed.  "  Look  out  for 
the  chair  ! " 

"What  chair?"  I  shouted  back. 

He  made  as  if  he  would  jump  off  and 
return.  But  he  had  already  paid  his  nickel, 
so  he  only  waved  despairingly.  Nickels 
count  in  Our  Square. 

No.  7  opened  to  me  with  a  musty  smell 
of  stale  heat.  Built  in  the  magnificent  days 
of  the  neighborhood,  by  a  senator  of  the 
United  States,  it  had  fallen  to  the  base 
uses  of  machine  workers  on  the  lower  and 
furnished  lodgings  on  the  upper  floors. 
The  very  walls  seemed  to  sweat  as  I  made 
my  way  up  to  the  dim  light  at  the  top, 
where  the  Gnome's  door  stood  open,  hope- 
lessly inviting  a  draft.  Upon  my  entrance 
a  huge  and  fumbling  creature  from  the 
lithographic  plant  where  the  Gnome  was 
an  assistant  rose  and  made  gloomy  and 
bashful  adieus. 


Our  Square 

Leon  Coventry  reached  a  great,  thin 
hand  across  the  littered  bed  to  make  me 
welcome.  Even  in  his  illness  he  preserved 
that  suggestion  of  bowed  and  gnarled 
power,  strangely  alien  to  his  youthfulness, 
which  had  given  him  his  nickname  in 
Our  Square.  Some  would  have  called  him 
ugly  efface.  But  his  mouth  had  the  aus- 
tere sweetness  of  a  saint  or  a  sufferer,  and 
in  his  eyes  glowed  a  living  fire  which 
might  tame  beasts  or  subdue  hearts. 

"How  are  you  feeling  to-night?"  I 
asked  perfunctorily. 

"  Wild,'*  he  answered.  "When  are  they 
going  to  let  me  out  ?  When  ?  When  ? " 

The  little  Red  Doctor  had  given  me  no 
hint  upon  this  point.  So  I  said  non-com- 
mittally:  "Soon,  I  think,"  and  moved 
around  the  bed  to  where  an  easy-chair  in- 
vited. It  was  a  wicker  chair,  broad-seated, 
wide-armed,  and  welcoming,  a  chair  made 
conformable  and  gracious  by  long  usage, 
a  chair  for  lovers,  for  high  hopes  and  for 
90 


The  Chair  that  Whispered 

dreams,  a  chair  to  solace  troubles  and  soothe 
weariness.  Into  it  I  would  have  dropped 
gratefully,  when  the  sick  man's  fingers 
closed  on  my  wrist  like  the  jaws  of  an  ani- 
mal, and  I  was  all  but  jerked  from  my  feet. 

"  Not  there  !  "  he  snarled  insanely.  "  Not 
there ! " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  said,  much  dis- 
composed. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you,"  he  re- 
turned with  a  return  to  that  habitual  gen- 
tleness of  address  which,  by  its  contrast 
with  his  formidable  physique,  gave  him 
the  aspect  of  a  kindly  and  companionable 
bear.  "But  if  you  don't  mind  sitting  here 
on  the  bed?  Or  yonder  on  the  sofa?  Or 
anywhere  except  —  " 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  I  assured  him.  "The 
fact  is,  I  detest  wicker  chairs  anyway.  I 
had  to  get  rid  of  mine." 

"Did  you?  Why?" 

"  It  was  no  companion  for  an  old,  lonely 
man." 


Our  Square 


The  Gnome  clutched  me  again.  His 
fingers  quivered  as  they  bit  into  my  arm. 

"  I  know !   It  whispered.   Did  n't  it  ? " 

I  nodded. 

"  So  does  mine.  Strange  things.  Echoes 
of  what  you  can't  forget." 

"Yes,  yes.    I  know." 

"  Do  you,  now  ?  I  wonder.  Perhaps  you 
do."  He  studied  my  face  with  his  lumi- 
nous eyes,  and  then  closed  them  and  fell 
back,  speaking  slowly  and  dreamily.  "  In 
the  darkness  when  I  can  see  the  chair  just 
enough  to  know  that  it 's  empty  as  — as  an 
empty  heart  —  I  hear  it  stirring,  stirring 
softly,  adjusting  itself  to  —  to  what  is  not 
there.  And  I  hold  my  breath  and  pray. 
But  —  nothing  more."  He  opened  his 
eyes  that  seemed  to  gaze  out  across  bar- 
riers of  pain  and  incomprehension.  "  Dom- 
inie, does  yours  —  did  yours  keep  its  se- 
crets ? " 

That  way,  obviously,  ran  the  boy's  mal- 
ady toward  madness.  Regretting  that  I 
92 


The  Chair  that  Whispered 

had  chanced  upon  so  unfortunate  a  topic, 
I  said  nothing.  But  he  took  my  assent  for 
granted. 

"So  does  mine,"  he  sighed.  "It  has  not 
been  moved  nor  touched  since  it  was  left 
vacant." 

"  Shall  I  read  to  you  ?"  I  asked,  to  turn 
his  mind  aside. 

"  No.  Talk  to  me.  Tell  me  what  they 
are  doing  in  the  Square." 

So  I  gave  him  the  news  of  Tailor  Mac- 
Lachan's  latest  drunk,  and  Pushcart  To- 
nic's luck  in  the  lottery,  and  Grandma 
Souchet'sfaux  pas  at  the  movies  (her  first 
experience)  when  she  rose  and  yelled  for 
the  police  to  stop  the  pickpocket  in  the 
flagrant  act  of  abstracting  the  heroine's 
aged  father's  watch,  thereby  disgracing  her 
(grandma's)  progeny  and  making  them  a 
derision  and  a  byword  even  unto  the  third 
and  fourth  generation;  and  the  Morrissey 
mumps,  the  whole  kit  and  b'ilin'  of  juve- 
nile Morrisseys  having  been  sent  to  school 

93 


Our  Square 

looking  like  five  little  red  balloons,  where- 
by holiday  for  the  rest  of  the  scholars  and 
great  rejoicing,  and  the  unavailing  wrath 
of  the  authorities  upon  Mrs.  Morrissey's 
head;  and  Terry  the  Cop's  extra  stripe; 
and  the  passing  of  the  skat  championship 
into  the  unworthy  but  preposterously  lucky 
hands  of  the  Avenue  B  Evening  Dress  Suit 
Club;  and  the  battle  over  Orpheus  the 
Piper  (which  was  a  jest  of  the  Lords  of 
High  Derision,  touching  the  boundaries 
of  uttermost  tragedy) ;  and  the  exotic  third 
stage  of  the  affair,  not  yet  ended,  between 
Mary  Moore  and  the  Weeping  Scion  of 
Wealth  ;  and  the  newspaper  discovery  of 
a  barroom  poet  at  Schmidt's  free-lunch 
counter;  and  the  joke  which  his  fashion- 
able uptown  club  put  up  on  Cyrus  the 
Gaunt ;  and  politics  and  social  doings,  and 
the  whisper  of  scandal ;  exactly  as  it  might 
be  in  any  other  little  world  than  Our 
Square ;  and,  finally,  for  I  was  leading  up 
to  a  delicate  and  difficult  point,  my  own 

94 


The  Chair  that  Whispered 

little  smile  of  fortune,  in  the  form  of  a 
small  textbook  finally  accepted  and  ad- 
vance royalty  duly  paid  thereon.  For  the 
difficult  and  dangerous  point  was  how  to 
help  the  Gnome  in  case  he  needed  it. 
Offer  of  charity,  even  when  glossed  over 
with  the  euphemism  of  a  "loan,"  is  not 
accepted  in  ease  of  spirit  by  the  people  of 
Our  Square.  In  fact,  it  is  n't  accepted  at 
all,  as  a  rule.  The  likelihood  of  ability  to 
pay  back  is  too  dubious  and  remote.  So  it 
was  in  my  most  offhand  manner  that  I 
inquired :  — 

"  By  the  way,  how  are  you  off  for  ready 
cash  ? " 

Leon  fluttered  his  hand  among  the 
papers  on  the  bed.  They  were  opened 
envelopes. 

"  Look  inside  them,"  he  directed. 

Within  were  checks.  They  were  on 
various  mercantile  and  commercial  firms. 
Mostly  the  amounts  were  small ;  two  dol- 
lars, two-and-a-half,  three,  and  four,  and 

95 


Our  Square 


the  largest  for  ten  dollars.  Totaled  up 
they  amounted  to  affluence  as  Our  Square 
understands  the  term. 

"Something  new?"    I  asked. 

"  Yes.  Advertising  sketches.  They  've 
caught  on." 

"  I  did  n't  know  that  you  could  draw, 
Leon." 

"  Neither  did  I,  beyond  scratchy, 
sketchy  blobs,  until  the  Bonnie  Lassie  told 
me." 

"  If  the  Bonnie  Lassie  has  been  giving 
you  lessons,  you  're  in  a  good  school,"  I 
said,  for  the  local  sculptress,  nymph,  and 
goddess  of  Our  Square  had  already  begun 
to  make  us  and  herself  famous  with  her 
tiny  bronzes. 

"  Not  lessons  exactly.  But  pointers." 

"  You  're  in  luck  to  be  making  money 
while  you're  laid  up." 

"  The  doc  says  I  ought  n't  to  work  at 
it.  But  I  had  to  do  something  or  go  crazy. 
A  man  can't  live  by  just  waiting  ;  can  he  ? 
96 


The  Chair  that  Whispered 

So  when  I  can't  sleep  I  sketch.  And  the 
checks  come  in.  It 's  like  a  miracle.  Only 
—  it  is  n't  the  miracle  that  I  want.  When 
do  you  think  I  '11  be  strong  enough  to  get 
out?  Can't  you  tell  me?  Can't  you  find 
out  from  doc  ?  I  'd  get  better  if  I  only  had 
something  to  go  on  ! " 

Always  that  was  the  beginning  and  end 
of  our  talks  ;  talks  which  often  skirted  the 
borders  of  the  secret  that  was  wearing  his 
life  down,  but  never  revealed  it.  When  I 
sought  to  shift  the  burden  of  the  query 
upon  the  Little  Red  Doctor,  he  looked 
glum  and  shook  his  head. 

"  But  go  there  when  you  can,  dominie. 
He  likes  to  have  you.  You  rest  him. 
Sometimes  he  sleeps  after  you  've  gone." 

Though  the  Gnome  never  spoke  of  it 
again,  I  knew  why  he  liked  me  with  him. 
The  bond  of  sympathy  was  that  in  my 
life,  too,  had  been  an  empty  chair  that 
whispered.  So  the  harsh  summer  elongated 
itself  like  the  stretching  of  a  white-hot 

97 


metal  bar,  and  through  the  swelter  and 
hush  of  long  nights  I  watched  the  rugged 
Gnome  slowly  dwindle. 

My  first  weekly  watch  night  in  Sep- 
tember came  with  one  of  the  savagest  on- 
slaughts of  belated  heat  in  the  memory  of 
Our  Square.  For  the  sake  of  what  little 
air  there  was  I  had  drawn  the  couch  out 
between  the  two  windows.  Discouraged 
by  the  handicap  of  a  forearm  which  stuck 
clammily  to  his  drawing  board,  the  Gnome 
had  turned  off  his  overhead  light,  and  now 
lay  rigid.  But  I  knew  that  he  did  not 
sleep.  From  some  merciful  cleft  in  the 
brazen  sky  came  a  waft  of  coolness.  It 
fanned  me  into  a  doze. 

I  awoke  with  a  start,  to  hear  the  Gnome's 
voice,  in  a  hard-breathed  whisper :  "  My 
heart !  Oh,  my  heart !  " 

."This,"  I  thought,  "is  the  end."  I 
tried  to  rise,  but  a  paralysis  of  the  will 
held  me,  though  my  senses  seemed  preter- 
naturally  acute. 

98 


The  Chair  that  Whispered 

From  the  bedside  I  heard  the  stir  of  the 
wicker  chair.  The  withes  moved  softly 
upon  themselves  with  delicate,  smooth 
rustlings.  The  chair,  whispering,  sagged 
and  yielded  as  if  to  the  pressure  of  some 
light,  sweet  burden.  Then  the  voice  of  the 
Gnome  came,  out  of  the  darkness,  again, 
and  I  knew  that  my  fear  was  without 
cause,  for  he  was  leaning  toward  the  chair 
and  speaking  to  that  which  whispered. 

"My  Heart!  Oh,  my  Heart!  Will 
you  never  come  back  ?  Don't  you  know 
that  I  can't  come  to  find  you  ?  I  've  tried. 
God  of  pity,  how  I  've  tried !  Can't  you 
hear  me,  can't  you  feel  me  calling  for  you  ? 
If  I  could  see  you  once  again  !  Only  once. 
It  is  n't  so  much  to  ask.  And  the  time  is 
short.  Come  back  to  me,  my  Heart!" 

I  heard  the  chair  whispering,  whisper- 
ing messages  beyond  the  little  reach  of 
human  understanding.  Then  the  beggar 
of  ghosts  fell  back,  and  the  bed  creaked 
and  shook.  I  knew  what  made  it  creak 

99 


Our  Square 

and  shake.  Chairs  that  whisper  have  no 
balm  for  that  misery. 

Two  of  us  lay  still  and  wakeful  through 
the  rest  of  that  night.  In  the  morning  we 
faced  each  other  pallidly. 

"  Did  you  hear  .me  in  the  night  ? " 
asked  my  host. 

«  Yes." 

"Then  I  'm  going  to  tell  you  the  rest, 
for  I  think  I  have  n't  much  longer  time  to 
tell  anything." 

"  Oh,  nonsense ! "  I  protested ;  but  it  was 
lip  speech  only,  and  he  smiled  at  the  pre- 
tense. 

"Of  course,  nonsense,  if  you  like.  But 
I  '11  go,  shriven  of  that  secret.  The  wicker 
chair  is  where  She  used  to  sit." 

"That  much  I  gathered." 

"  How  can  I  describe  Her  to  you  ?  How 
can  I  make  you  understand  as  you  would 
if  you  'd  seen  Her  ? " 

"  Perhaps  I  have." 

"When?  Where?" 


100 


T*he  Chair  that  Whispered 

"  Sitting  with  you  on  a  bench  in  the 
Square  the  week  the  lilacs  bloomed.  She 
looked  afraid." 

"She  was.  A  brute  of  a  foreman  had  in- 
sulted her.  So  she  lost  her  job  as  a  feather 
finisher  —  did  you  see  her  beautiful  hands  ? 
—  and  she  could  find  no  other,  and  there 
was  nobody  in  the  world  for  her  to  turn  to. 
Down  below  her  last  dollar,  and  twenty 
years  old,  and  lovely.  There 's  terror 
enough  in  that,  is  n't  there  ? " 

My  mind  went  back  to  certain  black- 
and-scarlet  tragedies  which  Our  Square 
makes  brave  pretense  of  having  forgotten ; 
tragedies  of  its  unforgotten  daughters. 
Terror  enough,  indeed ! 

"Was  she  some  one  you  knew?" 

No  ;  she  was  not  some  one  whom  the 
Gnome  knew.  How  to  get  to  know  her 
and  help  her  (for  help  was  his  one,  all- 
effacing,  loyal  purpose  from  the  first  mo- 
ment he  looked  into  her  face) ;  there  was 
the  heart  of  the  problem.  At  any  moment 
101 


Our  Square 


she  might  pass  on,   out  of  reach  of  his 
aid. 

Yet  to  speak  to  her  was  too  much  risk. 
She  sat  poised  as  ready  for  startled  flight 
as  a  bird.  Into  which  deadlock  of  fateful 
chances  intruded  Susan  Gluck's  Orphan, 
aged  six,  and  with  a  passion  for  scientific 
pursuits.  The  immediate  object  of  his  re- 
search was  to  discover  what  treasure  so 
strongly  interested  a  honeybee  in  a  lilac 
bell,  and  if  need  be  assist  in  the  operation, 
his  honorable  purpose  also  being  to  help. 
Unfortunately  the  Busy  One  misunderstood 
and  resented,  whereupon  Susan  Gluck's 
Orphan  lifted  up  his  voice  and  smote  the 
far  heavens  with  his  lamentations.  To  him, 
running  in  agonized  circles  with  his  finger 
in  his  mouth,  the  girl  extended  arms  and 
invitation  to  come  and  be  comforted.  The 
voice,  with  its  clear,  soft,  mothering  ap- 
peal, tugged  at  the  Gnome's  heart-strings ; 
to  Susan  Gluck's  Orphan  it  was,  however, 
but  the  voice  of  a  stranger,  and  therefore 

IO2 


T*he  Chair  that  Whispered 

to  be  feared.  There,  however,  sat  Leon 
the  Gnome,  unnoted  before,  but  now  an 
appreciated  refuge.  For  to  the  young  of 
the  species  in  Our  Square  the  Gnome  is  a 
delight,  because  of  his  athletic  habit  of 
using  a  child  —  and  sometimes  two  —  in 
evening  dumb-bell  exercises,  for  the  up- 
keep of  his  mighty  muscles.  To  his  knees 
fled  the  wailful  orphan.  Gently  though 
clumsily  the  Gnome  extracted  the  stinger, 
in  astonished  contemplation  of  which  the 
sufferer  temporarily  forgot  his  woes  ;  pres- 
ently, however,  as  the  poison  took  hold 
of  the  nerves,  lapsing  again  into  woe. 

All  this  the  girl  had  been  watching 
from  the  corner  of  her  eye,  making,  one 
may  guess,  a  private  estimate  of  the  sin- 
gular-looking youth  who  had  been  cov- 
ertly spying  upon  her  fear  and  despair. 
Wise  in  a  lore  of  which  the  Gnome  was 
as  ignorant  as  the  Orphan,  she  now  offered 
wet  mud.  It  was  applied,  and  the  adoptive 
pride  of  the  Glucks  raced  off  to  vaunt  his 
103 


Our  Square 


wounds  to  his  fellows,  leaving  two  people 
with  quick-beating  hearts  gazing  at  each 
other.  The  Gnome  took  a  quick  resolve. 

"  I  have  been  frightened,  too,  in  my 
time." 

"  He  is  well  over  it,"  answered  the  girl, 
following  the  now  boasting  Orphan  with 
her  gaze. 

"  I  don't  mean  that.  I  have  been  hun- 
gry too." 

Now  she  understood,  and  drew  back, 
flushing.  But  she,  too,  was  one  to  go 
straight  to  a  point.  Perhaps  two  more  di- 
rect spirits  than  those  twain  seldom  meet. 
"You  mean  me?"  she  asked. 

"Yes." 

"  I  'm  not  hungry,  and  I  'm  not  afraid," 
she  lied. 

"  Could  you  believe,"  he  said  slowly, 
"  that  I  mean  as  well  to  you  as  I  did  to 
that  child  —  and  the  same?" 

She  did  not  answer  at  once,  but  the  de- 
fensive look  wavered  in  her  eyes. 
104 


The  Chair  that  Whispered 

"  Do  you  ever  gamble  ? "  was  his  next 
question. 

"Gamble?"  she  repeated  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"  Like  matching  pennies.  I  '11  match 
you  for  the  dinners." 

"I  —  I  Ve  only  got  a  dollar,"  she  said. 

"  Plenty." 

"  It  is  n't  really  a  dollar,"  she  mur- 
mured. "  I ' ve  only  got — forty-three  cents 
—  in  the  world." 

It  was  her  first  confidence,  and  he 
thrilled  to  it.  But  he  accepted  it  quite  as 
a  matter  of  course. 

"  Even  on  that  it  can  be  done.  Come ; 
where  are  you  any  worse  off,  even  if  you 
lose  ?  And,  at  dinner,  we  might  figure  out 
some  way  for  you  to  be  better  off." 

She  got  out  a  penny  and  looked  at  it  a 
long  time  and  then  said :  "  Do  I  toss  it 
up?"  And  of  course  the  Gnome  said  no; 
because  a  tossed  penny  shows  for  itself.  So 
they  matched,  and  he  looked  at  his  coin 
105 


Our  Square 


(which  showed  the  winning  side  up)  and 
said :  — 

"I  lose;  I  didn't  match  you." 

And  then  her  lost  misgiving  surged  over 
her  and  they  sat  and  argued  it.  That  is 
when  I  first  noticed  them.  The  Gnome 
won.  Of  course. 

"  So  I  took  her  to  Marot's,"  said  the 
young  giant,  sitting  up  against  his  pillows 
and  letting  his  gaze  fare  out  into  the  hum- 
ming heat  of  the* day;  "because  I  knew 
that,  on  a  pinch,  Mme.  Marot  would  look 
after  her.  And  I  had  an  awful  time  keep- 
ing the  bill  of  fare  away  from  her  and  mak- 
ing her  believe  that  she  was  getting  only 
forty-three  cents'  worth.  Courage  came 
back  to  her  with  the  food.  She  told  me  a 
little  of  her  story;  not  much,  then  or  after- 
ward. I  think  she  did  n't  want  to  claim 
anything  of  me,  ever,  not  even  sympathy. 
You  see  ? " 

I  did  see,  if  only  vaguely.  Leon  the 
Gnome  was  building  up  a  character  to 
ic6 


'The  Chair  that  Whispered 

match  the   curious  beauty  of  the  face  I 
had  seen  that  once. 

"  That  foreman  brute  was  n't  her  first 
experience.  She  had  had  to  fight  before ; 
to  leave  good  employment.  To  her  the 
world  was  a  jungle  full  of  men  who  were 
only  a  horrible  sort  of  pursuing  ape.  That 
came  out  later  when  I  knew  her  better. 
My  business  there  at  that  first  dinner  at 
Marot's  was  to  get  her  to  believe  in  me. 
Well,"  he  sighed,  as  over  the  memory  of  a 
formidable  task  accomplished,  "I  did  it!'* 

He  did  it!  Think  of  the  gulf  between 
those  two  ;  full,  for  her,  of  shameful  mem- 
ories and  bristling  fears ;  a  gulf  to  be 
crossed  with  a  shrinking  heart  before  she 
could  trust  him  ;  and  across  it  he  had  led 
her  by  the  mere  power  of  words.  Well, 
no ;  not  words  alone.  Something  shining 
and  clear  and  trust-compelling  back  of  the 
words  ;  the  nature  of  the  man.  Have  I  said 
that  our  Gnome  was  rather  a  wonderful 
person  ?  He  was. 

107 


Our  Square 


"But  how  did  you  do  it,  miracle 
worker?"  I  demanded. 

"  No  miracle  at  all.  I  don't  understand 
you.  I  just  told  her  about  myself." 

"  Quite  so.  What,  for  example  ? " 

"  Oh,  everything,"  he  said,  with  a  ges- 
ture of  his  big  hands,  indicating  a  broad 
generality.  "  Just  a  sort  of  outline  of  my 
life.  I  wanted  her  to  know  me  as  I  was." 

I  wondered  how  many  youths  of  my 
acquaintance  in  Our  Square,  or  out,  could 
afford  to  tell  "  everything  "  as  a  method 
of  winning  a  young  girl's  confidence.  But 
the  Gnome,  as  I  have  indicated,  was  some- 
thing of  a  phenomenon. 

"  So  I  lent  her  money  and  courage  to  go 
on  with.  And  that  evening,  when  we  had 
walked  and  talked  I  said  to  her :  « Where 
will  you  go  to-night?'  and  she  said:  'Tell 
me.'  So  I  brought  her  here  to  live." 

"Here?"  I  exclaimed. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  ? "  he  growled. 
"  Don't  think  it.    Open  that  door." 
108 


The  Chair  that  Whispered 

He  pointed  to  thefar  corner  of  the  room. 
I  did  as  directed.  "  Look  on  the  other  side 
of  it.  What  do  you  see?" 

What  I  saw  on  the  further  side  of  the 
door  was  an  oak  bar  set  in  iron  clamps.  Be- 
yond was  a  tiny  room  and  a  tiny  white  bed 
and  a  flower  in  a  pot  on  the  window  sill, 
dead  and  withered  in  the  heat.  Opposite 
the  window  an  exit  led  to  the  hallway. 

"  There  she  lived  and  sang  and  was  happy 
for  fifty-five  days.  Each  day  was  more  glo- 
rious than  the  last  for  me.  She  stopped  be- 
ing afraid  almost  at  once.  It  was  just  an 
even  week  after  she  came  that  she  tapped 
on  the  door,  when  I  had  settled  down  to 
read  my  evening  away. 

" '  May  I  come  in?'  she  asked. 

"  «  Yes,'  I  said. 

"  For  quite  a  time  she  made  no  move. 
Then  :  '  Are  you  sure  ? '  she  said. 

"  I  understood.  That  was  her  way  —  to 
make  you  understand  more  than  she  said." 
The  sick  man  leaned  out  from  his  pillow 
109 


Our  Square 


toward  the  little  door.  "  I  can  see  her  now, 
as  she  came  into  the  room.  She  was  all  in 
fresh  white,  with  a  touch  of  some  color  at 
her  waist.  I  had  bought  that  dress  for  her. 
Do  you  know  the  delight  of  buying  the 
realities  of  life  for  the  woman  you  love  ? 
Oh,  yes!  I  loved  her  then.  I  had  loved  her 
from  the  first  sight,  when  I  spoke  to  her  on 
the  bench  because  she  seemed  so  desolate 
and  scared. 

"She  came  straight  to  me,  and  I  stood 
up  and  put  down  my  book.  She  looked  me 
in  the  eyes,  hard.  Then  she  held  out  her 
hand.  'Shake  hands,'  she  said.  I  shook. 
'I'll  keep  the  bargain,'  I  said.  'I  know 
you  will,'  said  she.  She  sat  down  in  the 
wicker  chair.  No  one  has  sat  in  it  since ; 
not  even  the  Bonnie  Lassie  when  she  came. 
Yes ;  she  sat  down  in  the  chair  as  if  she 
were  adopting  it  for  her  own.  And  we 
talked." 

"What  did  you  talk  about?"  I  asked. 
A  foolish  question,  for  what  do  youth  and 
no 


The  Chair  that  Whispered 

youth  always  talk  about,  when  they  en- 
counter ?  But  his  reply  surprised  me. 

"  Money,  mostly,  that  first  evening.  We 
went  over  accounts.  She  was  keeping  strict 
record  of  every  cent  I  spent  on  her,  to  pay 
back  when  she  got  a  job.  Room  rent,  too. 
Oh,  it  was  all  very  businesslike  through- 
out. Afterward  we  talked  about  life  and 
books  and  things.  I  lent  her  my  books.  I 
read  a  good  deal,  you  know ;  all  of  us  in  the 
printing  trades  are  great  readers,"  he  added 
with  a  touch  of  guild  pride.  "  She  was 
better  educated  than  I,  though.  Where  did 
she  get  it  ?  I  never  found  out.  Of  course  I 
did  n't  ask  any  questions.  That  was  part 
of  the  bargain,  as  I  understood  it.  She 
asked  me  a  million.  She  turned  me  inside 
out  and  sometimes  she  laughed  at  me.  But 
her  laughter  never  hurt.  It  was  n't  that 
kind." 

"Mightn't  she  have  thought  that  your 
not  asking  questions  of  your  own  showed 
a  lack  of  interest  in  her?"  I  suggested. 
in 


Our  Square 


"How  could  she?  I  hadn't  the  right 
to  ask  questions.  I  had  n't  the  right  to  do 
anything  but  watch  over  her  and  guard  her 
and  keep  to  my  bargain.  Every  evening 
she  knocked  and  came  in  and  sat  in  the 
wicker  chair,  and  we  talked.  It  was  the 
sweetest  thing  in  life  to  me,  that  absolute 
confidence.  But  the  greater  her  confidence 
grew  the  more  I  was  bound  not  to  let  her 
see  what  I  felt  for  her.  Is  n't  it  so  ?  You 
see,  I  know  nothing  about  women." 

Having  my  grave  doubts  upon  the  point, 
I  offered  no  advice. 

"  She  got  a  job.  I  don't  know  where. 
Next  week  she  began  to  pay  me  up." 

"  Did  you  make  any  protests  ? "  I  asked, 
sounding  him. 

"  Protests  ?  Certainly  not.  I  could  n't, 
could  I?  It  was  a  question  of  her  self- 
respect." 

"  Of  course.  I  beg  your  pardon  for 
asking." 

"There  was  one  night — we  had  been 

I  12 


The  Chair  that  Whispered 

to  a  concert,  Dutch  treat,  of  course  —  and 
she  came  into  my  room  to  sit  and  talk 
it  over  for  a  few  minutes.  Passing  me 
on  her  way  back  to  her  own  room,  she 
stopped  behind  my  chair,  and  I  felt  some- 
thing just  brush  my  temple;  and  then  the 
door  shut  behind  her  and  the  bar  fell,  and 
I  heard  her  voice:  *  Good-night,  Gala- 
had.' For  the  next  three  days  I  never  set 
eyes  on  her." 

"  Did  that  tell  you  nothing  ?  " 

"What  should  it  tell  me?"  retorted 
that  pathetic  young  idiot.  "  It  was  just 
part  of  her  mystery,  of  the  mystery  of 
woman,  I  suppose.  The  next  Saturday 
night  that  drunken  sot,  MacLachan,  came 
and  ruined  everything." 

"  Soft  words,  Leon,"  I  protested,  for 
the  dour-faced,  harsh-spoken,  sore-hearted 
tailor  of  Our  Square  has  his  own  reasons 
for  drink  and  forgetfulness,  and,  drunk  or 
sober,  he  is  my  friend." 

"  I  wish  he  had  broken  his  neck  on  the 

"3 


Our  Square 

stairs,"  said  the  Gnome  savagely.  "  He 
sat  over  there,  bleating  to  me  some  gib- 
berish about  Scotch  philosophy,  when 
Vera  came  into  her  room,  and  knocked 
as  she  always  did.  It  was  he  that  called 
'  Come  in.'  She  came  and  stopped,  look- 
ing at  him  with  surprise.  'Oh,'  she  said, 
'  I  did  n't  know/  '  No  more  did  I,'  said 
MacLachan,  standing  up  with  solemn, 
drunken  politeness.  'I  was  not  aweer 
there  was  a  Mrs.  Leon  Coventry  here.' 
She  turned  color,  but  looked  him  in  the 
eye.  'There  isn't,'  said  she.  'Then  take 
shame  to  yerself,'  he  said.  '  Ye  should 
make  at  least  the  pretexY 

"  If  she  had  n't  jumped  between  us,  I 
would  have  pitched  him  out  of  the  win- 
dow. But  she  checked  me  long  enough 
for  him  to  get  away  and  run  down  the 
stairs.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  felt  her 
arms  and  it  turned  me  sick  with  longing. 
She  backed  away  from  me  and  said  :  '  I  'm 
sorry,  Leon.  I  did  n't  know  there  was 
114 


T'be  Chair  that  Whispered 

any  one  here.'  '  Wait,'  I  said.  '  We  've 
got  to  be  married  now.'  If  you  could  have 
seen  her  face,  you  'd  have  thought  I  'd 
struck  her."  He  stopped  and  swept  the 
beads  of  sweat  from  his  temples. 

"Is  that  all  you  said?"  I  asked. 

He  stared  at  me.  "  That 's  almost  what 
she  asked  me  ? "  he  replied.  "  She  said  : 
'Is that  all  you  have  to  say  to  me,  Leon?' 
I  didn't  get  her  meaning.  I  was  intent 
on  the  one  thing  —  the  bargain:  that  I 
mustn't  make  love  to  her;  that  I  must 
n't  catch  her  in  my  arms  and  hold  her 
against  my  heart  that  was  bursting  with 
love  of  her.  The  fever  was  on  me,  then, 
too,  and  I  suppose  that  kept  me  to  the 
one  idea  that  was  burning  in  my  brain. 

"'We  can  go  to  the  Greek  church, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  square,'  I  said. 
'  When  can  you  be  ready  ? ' 

"  She  walked  back  into  her  room,  and 
I  never  saw  her  again." 

"  God  forgive  you  for  a  fool ! "  I  said. 

"5 


Our  Square 


"  Why  did  n't  you  tell  her  what  every 
woman  wants  to  hear,  that  you  loved 
her?" 

"Why,  she  must  have  known  it;  she 
must  have  realized  it  a  thousand  times,  by 
a  thousand  signs.  Yet  she  left  me  —  that 
way." 

"  You  've  had  nothing  from  her  since?" 

"Yes.  A  money  order  for  the  balance 
of  what  she  owed  me."  An  involuntary, 
jealous  clutch  at  his  pillow  told  me  that 
the  money  order  had  not  been  and  would 
not  be  cashed. 

"  No  word  with  it  ? " 

"  Just  gratitude."  The  Gnome's  sensi- 
tive lips  quivered.  "  What  do  I  want 
with  gratitude?  I  want  her!  I  want  to 
find  her.  Suppose  she  were  in  trouble 
again.  She  's  so  young  and  helpless!" 

"MacLachan  never  meant — " 

"  I  went  out  to  kill  MacLachan  next 
day.  I  was  having  pretty  good  luck  at  it 
too,  when  Terry  the  Cop  came  in.  They 
116 


The  Chair  that  Whispered 

brought  me  back  here  and  called  the  doc- 
tor, and  MacLachan  cried  out  of  one  eye, 
for  the  other  was  closed." 

I  recalled  the  tailor's  black  eye.  Fur- 
ther I  recalled  that  when  some  other-world 
business  had  taken  me  to  Fifth  Avenue  I 
had  there  encountered  Mac  (of  all  persons) 
in  (of  all  places)  a  millinery  store.  The  frag- 
ments of  his  conversation  which  I  caught 
related  to  ostriches.  To  my  inquiry  he  re- 
plied that  he  was  pursuing  a  will-o'-the- 
wisp,  and  that  it  was  a  lawful  occupation. 
The  suspicion  now  lodged  in  my  mind  that 
Mac  had  been  searching  for  a  lost  trail.  Of 
this  I  said  nothing  to  Leon. 

"Sometimes  at  night,'*  the  sick  man 
went  on,  "  when  I  am  not  longing  to  smash 
up  all  the  world  because  I  can't  get  out  and 
find  her,  she  comes  and  sits  in  the  wicker 
chair,  and  I  hear  the  pressure  of  her  dear 
body  against  the  withes,  and  I  feel  her 
breath  in  the  silence,  but  she  never  speaks. 
Is  she  dead,  do  you  think?" 
117 


Our  Square 

I  most  emphatically  declined  to  enter- 
tain any  such  hypothesis.  As  for  the  Gnome, 
it  seemed  that  he  soon  might  be.  The  Lit- 
tle Red  Doctor's  visits  grew  more  frequent, 
and  his  brow  more  corrugated,  and  his  eyes 
more  perplexed.  Once  he  went  so  far  as  to 
observe  in  my  hearing  that  nature  could  go 
just  about  so  far  without  sleep  and  then  it 
cracked. 

"Through  that  crack,'*  he  remarked, 
"enters  sometimes  my  old  friend,  Death, 
sometimes  madness.  Let's  pray  that  it 
won't  be  madness  in  the  Gnome's  case." 

Indications  seemed  to  point  in  that  di- 
rection, however.  Leon's  association  with 
the  spirit  of  the  chair  became  closer  and 
more  constant.  Night  after  night  I  heard 
him  murmuring  in  the  darkness,  and  the 
soft  creak  and  rustle  and  whisper  of  the 
chair  in  reply,  until  the  hairs  of  my  neck 
quivered. 

There  came  a  night  when  the  heat  broke 
under  a  pressure  of  wild  wind  and  rain  from 
118 


Chair  that  Whispered 

the  northwest  that  swept  Our  Square  like 
an  aerial  charge.  It  whirled  me,  breathless, 
into  No.  7,  and  pursued  me  up  the  stairs, 
puffing  out  the  light  at  the  top.  The  Gnome 
was  working.  Beside  him  on  a  stand  rus- 
tled a  little  pile  of  checks,  weighted  down. 

"I  'm  going  to  leave  a  legacy,"  he  said 
gayly.  "  Will  you  be  my  executor  ?  You  '11 
have  to  find  Her,  you  know." 

"  Ask  me  ten  years  from  now,  if  I  'm 
alive,"  I  answered.  "What's  to-night? 
Reading  ? " 

"Sleep,  for  you.  You  look  done  up. 
Take  the  couch  and  a  blanket." 

I  took  them  and,  with  them,  what  I 
had  originally  planned  to  be  a  brief  nap, 
for  there  was  medicine  to  be  given  now. 
When  I  woke  up  the  room  was  dark.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  a  cold  draft  had  passed 
over  and  roused  me.  Above  the  rush  and 
whistle  of  the  wind  I  could  hear  the  chair 
whispering. 

"My  Heart!  Oh,  my  Heart!  Have 
119 


Our  Square 


you  come  back?"  pleaded  the  Gnome's 
voice  in  the  silence. 

Then  all  the  blood  in  my  body  made 
one  great  leap  and  stopped.  The  chair  had 
sobbed. 

"  It  has  seemed  so  often  that  I  could 
stretch  out  my  hand  and  touch  you,"  went 
on  the  piteous,  quiet  voice  from  the  bed. 
"  But  you  were  never  there.  And  my  soul 
is  tired  with  waiting  and  longing." 

The  chair  rustled  again  with  the  sound 
of  release  from  weight.  There  was  a  broken 
cry  of  love  and  fear  and  gladness  that  was 
of  this  and  not  the  other  world,  and  I  knew 
without  seeing  that  it  was  a  woman  of 
flesh  and  blood  who  lay  on  the  Gnome's 
breast,  covering  his  face  with  her  kisses. 

"  Darling  fool !  Darling  fool !  Why 
didn't  you  tell  me?"  she  sobbed.  "Why 
did  n't  you  tell  me  that  you  loved  me  ? " 

"I  thought  that  I  did,"  saidthe  Gnome, 
and  I  started  at  the  changed  voice,  for  it 
had  suddenly  taken  on  life  and  vigor.  "  I 
1 20 


"The  Chair  that  Whispered 

thought  I  told  you  in  every  word  and  look 
that  you  were  all  my  world."  There  was  a 
pause,  then  :  "  Who  did  tell  you  ? " 

"Mr.  MacLachan.  He  found  me  at 
last.  He  took  me  by  the  arm  and  said: 
'Lassie,  the  love  o'  you  is  the  life  o'  him. 
An*  it 's  going  if  you  don't  come  back  an' 
save  him ! '  Is  it  true,  dearest  one  ? "  she 
cried  passionately.  "  Tell  me  I  'm  not  too 
late." 

Then  I  judged  it  best  to  tiptoe  quite 
circumspectly  out  of  the  room.  On  the 
landing  below  I  met  the  Little  Red  Doc- 
tor. 

"Who  went  up  the  stairs  just  now?" 
he  cried. 

"Love,"  said  I.  "Did  you  fear  it  was 
Death?" 


MacLachan  of  Our  Square 

MACLACHAN,  the  tailor,  is  as 
Scotch  as  his  name  and  as  dour  as 
the  Scotch.  Our  Square  goes  to  his  Home 
of  Fashion  to  have  its  clothes  made,  re- 
paired, and,  on  rare  and  special  occasions, 
pressed,  as  a  matter  of  local  loyalty,  which 
does  not  in  the  least  imply  that  it  either 
likes  or  approves  MacLachan.  It  is,  in  fact, 
rather  difficult  to  like  him.  He  has  a  gray- 
granite  face  with  a  mouth  like  a  snapped 
spring,  toppling  brows,  and  a  nose  wrinkled 
into  the  expression  of  one  suspicious  of  all 
mankind  and  convinced  that  his  worst  sus- 
picions are  well  founded.  He  has  also  the 
Scotch  habit  of  the  oracle,  and  deals  largely 
in  second-hand  aphorisms. 

Once  he  had  a  daughter,  a  wild-rose  girl, 
who  lived  over  the  Home  of  Fashion  with 
him,  and  kept  him  and  the  place  in  speck- 

122 


MacLacban 


less  order.  But  she  is  gone,  three  years 
since,  and  in  her  place  MacLachan  has 
only  a  bitter  memory  and  a  devouring 
shame.  What  they  quarreled  about  Our 
Square  never  knew.  The  hard-bitten  tailor 
was  easy  to  quarrel  with  at  any  time.  No 
information  was  offered  by  him,  and  pub- 
lic opinion  in  the  neighborhood  does  not 
favor  vain  and  curious  inquiries  into  an- 
other man's  family  troubles.  The  night 
that  Meg  left,  with  her  gray  eyes  blazing 
like  two  clear  flames  and  her  little  chin 
so  fiercely  set  that  the  dimple  disappeared 
from  it  totally,  MacLachan  went  out 
blackly  glowering,  and  came  back  drunk 
and  singing  "The  Cork  Leg." 

What  affinity  may  exist,  even  in  a  Scotch- 
man's mind,  between  that  naive  and  chatty 
ballad  and  strong  liquor  is  beyond  my  im- 
agination. But  our  dour,  sour  tailor  then 
and  there  chose  it  and  has  since  retained  it 
for  the  slogan  of  his  spirituous  outbreaks, 
and  sings  it  only  when  he  is,  in  his  own 
123 


Our  Square 

phrase,  "a  bit  drink-taken."  The  Bonnie 
Lassie  has  one  of  her  queer  theories  that 
he  used  to  sing  Meg  to  sleep  with  it  when 
she  was  a  baby.  "  And  that  }s  why,  you  see," 
says  she.  I  don't  see  at  all ;  it  seems  to  me 
a  psychologically  unsound  theory.  Still, 
some  of  the  unsoundest  theories  I  have  ever 
heard  from  the  Bonnie  Lassie's  lips  have 
been  inexplicably  borne  out  by  the  facts 
afterward.  When  I  marvel  at  this  she 
laughs  and  says  that  an  old  pedagogue  who 
has  spent  his  life  with  books  must  n't  ex- 
pect to  understand  people. 

As  for  the  wild-rose  Meg,  she  passed 
wholly  out  of  the  little,  close-knit,  se- 
cluded world  of  Our  Square.  Even  those 
few  of  us  who  knew  MacLachan  and 
counted  ourselves  his  friends  feared  to  men- 
tion her  name,  not  so  much  because  of  his 
known  temper  as  of  the  haunting  pain  that 
grew  in  his  eyes.  With  the  temerity  of 
youth,  Henry  Groll,  one  of  Meg's  many 
local  adorers,  and  the  best  second  tenor  in 
124 


MacLachan 


the  Amalgamated  Glee  Clubs,  did  put  it 
to  the  tailor,  having  come  to  the  Home  of 
Fashion  on  a  matter  of  international  com- 
plications, viz.,  to  ascertain  whether  red 
Hungarian  wine  would  come  out  of  a 
French  pique  waistcoat. 

"By  the  way,  what  d'  you  hear  from 
Meg?"  inquired  the  young  man. 

"What!"  The  tailor's  heavy  shears 
went  off  at  such  a  bias  across  the  cloth  he 
was  cutting  that  Lawyer  Stedman's  coat, 
when  completed,  never  could  be  coaxed  to 
set  exactly  right  under  the  left  arm. 

"I  —  I  only  ast  ye,"  said  the  visitor, 
somewhat  disconcerted.  "What's  Meg 
doin'  now?" 

Three  inches  lower  —  the  Little  Red 
Doctor  assured  Henry  a  few  moments  after 
his  ill-advised  query,  binding  up  the  spot 
where  the  flung  scissors  had  struck  —  and 
he  would  never  again  have  sung  second 
tenor  nor  anything  else  calling  for  the  em- 
ployment of  intact  vocal  cords.  Henry  sent 
125 


Our  Square 

a  messenger  after  the  waistcoat.  That  night 
MacLachan  reeled  home  bellowing  "  The 
Cork  Leg  "  in  a  voice  that  brought  Terry 
the  Cop  bounding  across  Our  Square  like 
a  dissuasive  antelope. 

My  one  first-hand  experience  with  the 
ballad  of  MacLachan's  lapse  from  sobriety 
was  brought  about  long  after  through  the 
Bonnie  Lassie's  procuring.  She  thrust  a 
sunny  head  from  her  studio  window  and 
beckoned  me  from  the  sidewalk  with  her 
modeling  tool. 

"  Dominie,  have  you  seen  MacLachan, 
the  tailor,  to-day?"  she  called  when  she 
secured  my  attention. 

"No.   Is  he  looking  for  me?" 
"  You  should  be  looking  for  him." 
I  examined   my  clothing  for   possible 
rents  or   stains.   My  sober  black  was  re- 
spectable   if  shiny.    The   Bonnie    Lassie 
made   a   gesture   of  annoyance  with  the 
modeling  tool  which  nearly  cost  her  latest 
creation  its  head. 

126 


MacLachan 


"  Do  you  know  what  day  this  is  ? " 

"Tuesday,  the  sev  —  " 

"  Don't  be  a  calendar,  please  !  What  day 
is  it  in  MacLachan's  life  ? " 

I  groped.  "  Is  it  his  birthday  ? "  (Not 
that  we  are  much  given  to  celebrating 
birthdays  in  Our  Square.) 

"  Oh,  you  men  !  You  men  !  I  've  just 
telephoned  the  Little  Red  Doctor  and  he 
did  n't  know  either.  It 's  the  second  anni- 
versary of  the  day  MacLachan's  Meg  left 
him.  Do  you  remember  what  happened 
last  year,  dominie?" 

Did  I  remember  !  When  Lawyer  Sted- 
man  had  lured  me  to  perjure  my  immor- 
tal soul  before  a  magistrate,  who  let  Mac 
off  only  upon  the  strength  of  a  character 
sketch  (by  me)  that  would  have  over- 
praised any  one  of  the  Twelve  Apostles ! 
I  did  remember. 

"  Very  well,  then.  You  and  the  doctor 
are  to  take  him  away  this  evening.   Far 
away  and  bring  him  back  sober." 
127 


Our  Square 

We  did  our  best.  And  we  almost  suc- 
ceeded. For  it  was  close  on  midnight  and 
Mac  was  sleepily  homebound  between  us 
before  what  he  had  drunk  —  against  a  ris- 
ing current  of  our  protests  —  awoke  the 
devil  of  music  in  his  brain.  We  were  cut- 
ting across  Second  Avenue  when  he  began : 

"  I  '11  tell  you  a  story  without  any  sham. 
In  Holland  there  lived  Mynheer  van  Flam, 
Who  every  morning  said  :  1 1  am 
The  richest  merchant  in  Rotterdam, 
Ri-tu,  di-nu,  di-nu  —  da  —  na  —  day  ! 
Ri-tu,  di-nu,  di-nay ! ' 

From  the  shadow  of  a  tree  there  moved 
one  of  those  brazen  and  piteous  she-ghosts 
that  haunt  the  locality.  She  addressed 
the  three  of  us  with  hopeful  impartiality. 
MacLachan  shook  himself  free  of  our  arms 
and  walked  close  to  her,  staring  strangely 
into  her  face. 

"I  've  got  a  daughter  in  your  line  of 
trade,"  he  said. 

He  spoke  quietly,  but  the  she-ghost  read 
128 


MacLachan 


his  eyes.  She  shrank  back  trembling,  stam- 
mered something,  and  hurried  away. 

Not  until  we  entered  Our  Square,  after 
ten  minutes  of  strained  silence,  did  Mac- 
Lachan  look  up  from  the  pavement. 

"Was  there  a  lassie  I  spoke  to?"  he 
asked  vaguely.  "What  did  I  say  to  her?" 

The  Little  Red  Doctor  told  him  cir- 
cumstantially. "  Personally,  I  think  you  're 
a  liar,"  he  added. 

"  Do  ye  ? "  wistfully  answered  the  tailor, 
slumping  upon  a  bench.  "  I  take  it  kind  of 
ye  that  ye  do.  But  I  'm  no  liar.  Once  and 
for  all  I  '11  tell  ye  both.  Then  ye  '11  know, 
and  we  '11  bury  it.  When  my  Meg  left  me 
I  began  to  die  —  inside.  The  last  thing  in 
me  to  die  was  my  pride.  When  that  was 
dead  too — or  I  thought  it  so  —  I  set  out 
to  seek  her.  I  found  her.  It  was  just  off 
Sixth  Avenue.  In  the  broad  o'  the  after- 
noon it  was,  and  there  she  stood  bedizened 
like  yon  poor  hussy  that  spoke  to  us.  Rad- 
dled with  paint  too ;  raddled  to  the  eyes. 
129 


Our  Square 

But  the  eyes  had  not  changed.  They  looked 
at  me  straight  and  brave  and  hard.  I  had 
meant  well  by  her,  however  I  might  find 
her.  God  knows  I  did !  But  at  the  sight 
of  her  so,  my  gorge  rose.  '  What  are  ye/ 
says  I,  '  that  ye  should  come  into  the  light 
of  day  wearing  shame  on  yer  face  ? '  Her 
look  never  wavered  —  you  mind  how  fear- 
less she  always  was,  dominie  —  though  she 
must  have  seen  I  was  near  to  killing  her 
with  my  naked  hands.  '  I  'm  as  you  see  me. 
Take  me  or  leave  me,'  she  says.  So  I  left 
her  to  go  her  ways,  and  I  went  mine." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Then  the 
Little  Red  Doctor  deliberately  measured 
off  a  short  inch  on  MacLachan's  fore- 
finger. 

"  You  're  not  that  much  of  a  man,  Mac," 
said  he,  and  flipped  the  hand  from  him. 
"  Do  you  take  him  home,  dominie ;  I 
have  n't  the  stomach  for  any  more  of  him 
to-night." 

With  any  other  than  the  Little  Red 
130 


MacLachan 


Doctor  it  would  have  been  a  lasting  quar- 
rel. But  the  official  physician  and  healer 
of  bodies  (and  souls  at  times)  to  Our  Square 
is  too  full  of  other  and  more  important 
things  to  find  room  for  resentment.  So 
when,  a  fortnight  later,  MacLachan  sallied 
forth  to  the  tune  of  "  The  Cork  Leg,"  and 
came  back  raving  with  pneumonia,  it  was, 
of  course,  the  Red  One  who  pulled  him 
through  it.  And  in  that  period  of  delirium 
and  truth  the  wise  little  physician  saw  deep 
into  the  true  MacLachan  and  realized  that 
a  spirit  as  wistful  and  craving  as  a  child's 
was  beating  itself  to  death  against  the  bars 
of  the  dour  Scotch  tradition  of  silence  and 
repression. 

"He'll  kill  himself  with  the  drink," 
said  the  Little  Red  Doctor  to  me  after  the 
tailor  was  restored  to  the  Home  of  Fashion. 
"Though  I'll  stop  him  if  I  can.  That's 
my  business.  Even  so,  maybe  I  '11  be  wrong. 
For  the  man's  heart  is  breaking  slowly. 
I  've  a  notion  that  my  old  friend,  Death, 


Our  Square 

might   do   better   with   the   case   than    I 
can." 

At  shorter  and  ever  shortening  intervals 
thereafter  the  booming  baritone  rendition 
of  "The  Cork  Leg"  apprised  Our  Square 
that  the  tailor  was  "  on  it  again."  One  late 
August  day,  as  the  doctor  was  passing  the 
Home  of  Fashion,  he  heard  from  behind 
the  closed  door  the  sound  of  MacLachan's 
mirthless  revelry.  He  stepped  in  and  found 
the  Scot,  cross-legged  and  with  a  bottle  at 
his  elbow,  rocking  in  time  to  his  own 
melody  while  he  stylishly  braided  mine 
host  Schmidt's  pants  ("trousers"  is  an 
effete  term  not  favored  by  Arbiter  Mac- 
Lachan)  for  the  morrow's  picnic  and  out- 
ing of  the  Pinochle  Club  :  — 

41  One  day  when  he  'd  stuffed  him  as  full  as  an  egg 
A  poor  relation  came  to  beg, 
But  he  kicked  him  out  without  broaching  a  keg, 
And  in  kicking  him  out  he  broke  his  own  leg. 
Ri-tu,  di-nu,  di  —  " 

"Shut  up,  Mac!  Stop  it." 
132 


MacLachan 


"I  've  stopped.  You've  rooned  my  mu- 
sic. The  noblest  song,  bar  Bobbie  Burns 
—  What 's  yer  wish,  little  mannie?" 

"  I  've  some  work  for  you." 

"  I  've  no  time  —  " 

"  It 's  important.  I  must  surely  have  it 
to-morrow." 

"  '  Must  is  a  master  word,  but  will  not  is 
no  man's  slave,'  "  pronounced  MacLachan, 
the  oracle. 

"  Listen,  Mac,"  pleaded  the  other.  "  I  fve 
a  consultation  to-morrow,  and  I  must  have 
my  other  coat  fixed  up  for  it." 

"  What 's  wrong  wi'  the  garrment  ? " 

"  It 's  —  it 's  ripped  :  torn  across  the 
skirt,"  floundered  the  Little  Red  Doctor, 
who  is  a  weak,  unreliable  prevaricator  at 
best. 

The  dour  tailor  leaned  forward  and 
shook  his  goose  at  the  visitor.  "  Peril  yer 
salvation  with  no  more  black  lies  about 
yer  black  coat,"  said  he  firmly.  "It 's  the 
drink  ye  're  strivin'  to  wean  me  from.  But 

133 


Our  Square 


I  'm  proof  against  yer  strategy,  ye  pill-an'- 
pellet  Macchiavelli !  Ye  've  no  more  rip 
nor  tear  in  yer  black  coat  than  I  've  a  ring 
in  my  nose." 

"  Well,  I  'd  have  made  one,  then,"  re- 
turned the  shameless  doctor. 

"Ye'd  have  wasted  time  and  money. 
Go  yer  own  gait  an'  fight  yer  old  friend, 
Death.  But  leave  me  with  my  friend,  the 
Drink." 

"Listen  to  me,  Mac.  As  sure  as  you 
keep  it  up,  just  so  sure  the  dissecting-room 
will  get  your  kidneys  and  the  devil  will  get 
your  soul." 

Carefully  setting  aside  the  bottle,  Mac- 
Lachan  leaned  forward  to  fasten  a  claw  on 
the  Little  Red  Doctor's  shoulder. 

"  Do  you  listen  now,  and  I  '11  tell  ye  a 
secret.  While  I  'm  still  sober  I  '11  tell  it 
ye,  so  you  '11  believe  it  and  fash  me  no 
more  about  the  drink.  Ye  say  the  devil  will 
get  my  soul.  Ye 're  a  backward  prophet, 
mannie.  He  's  got  it.  Yes,  he  's  got  it,  an' 

134 


another  of  the  same  blood  to  boot.  An'  all 
he  ever  gave  me  in  trade  is  this/'  he  cried, 
pointing  to  the  bottle.  "  So  go  an'  save 
them  as  wants  it,  or  stay  an'  listen  :  — 

" l  Mr.  Doctor,'  says  he, 4  now  you've  done  your  work. 
By  your  sharp  knife  I  lose  one  fork, 
But  on  two  crutches  I  never  will  stalk, 
For  I  '11  have  a  beautiful  leg  of  cork.'  " 

"  Mac." 

"  Don't  delay  my  work.  I  've  to  finish 
these  pants  before  John  Nelson  comes  to 
fetch  me. " 

"Who's  John  Nelson?" 

"  Friend  of  my  seafarin'  days.  Now 
Captain  Nelson,  if  ye  please,  in  the  coast- 
wise trade,  new  back  from  the  deep  seas 
and  the  roaring  trades  with  a  tropical  thirst. 
'T  is  he  sent  me  yon  messenger,"  and  he 
indicated  the  bottle  of  rum.  "  Be  easy.  I  '11 
not  come  back  to  Our  Square  till  I  'm 
sober." 

"  If  you  do,  I  '11  swear  you  into  Belle- 
vue  with  my  own  right  hand,"  declared 

135 


Our  Square 

the  Little  Red  Doctor  disgustedly.  He 
slammed  the  door  as  he  went  out. 

The  next  person  to  open  that  door  was 
Captain  John  Nelson.  There  was  a  brief 
ceremonial  in  which  the  captain's  mes- 
senger played  an  important  role,  the  new- 
comer joined  his  voice,  for  old  friendship's 
sake,  in  the  refrain  of  MacLachan's  favor- 
ite ballad,  and  shortly  thereafter  the  twain 
were  seen  arm  in  arm  making  a  straight 
course  across  the  open  for  unknown  lands. 
All  that  we  of  Our  Square  had  to  judge 
MacLachan's  sea  comrade  by  was  a  stump- 
ing gait,  a  plump  figure,  a  brown  and  good- 
humored  face,  and  a  most  appalling  in- 
terpretation of  the  second  part  in  simple 
harmony. 

We  were  to  see  him  once  again,  briefly ; 
to  hear  from  his  lips  the  events  of  that 
astonishing  evening.  Of  the  Odyssey  of 
the  sailor  and  the  tailor  there  is  little  to 
be  said.  Crisscross  and  back,  along  Broad- 
way, from  Fourteenth  Street  upward,  it 
136 


MacLachan 


ran,  coming  to  a  stop  shortly  before  theater- 
closing  time  at  a  small  restaurant  which, 
I  am  told,  has  a  free-and-easy  rather  than 
an  unsavory  repute.  There  they  sat  down 
to  a  bit  of  supper,  having  had,  as  the  cap- 
tain pathetically  stated  later,  not  a  bite  to 
eat  since  dinner  at  eight  o'clock.  I  still 
possess  the  worthy  mariner's  "chart  of  the 
operations,"  as  he  terms  it,  sketched  in 
order  that  we  landlubbers  of  Our  Square 
might  comprehend  fully  how  it  all  devel- 
oped. From  this  masterpiece  of  cartogra- 
phy I  learn  that  the  two  friends  occu- 
pied a  side  table  some  halfway  down  the 
room,  Captain  Nelson  facing  the  rear.  At 
the  next  table  back,  and  therefore  directly 
in  his  view,  sat  a  couple,  the  lady  spread- 
ing so  much  canvas  that  she  covered  all 
of  ninety  degrees,  whereby  the  mariner 
means,  I  take  it,  that  his  neighbor's  hat 
shut  off  his  view  of  the  prospect  beyond. 
Food  and  drinks  being  ordered,  Mac- 
Lachan  had  just  leaned  back  to  a  discus- 

137 


Our  Square 

sion  of  the  relative  merits  of  Burns  and 
Carlyle  when  the  orchestra  struck  into  a 
tune  not  unlike  "  The  Cork  Leg.*'  To  the 
scandal  and  distress  of  the  captain,  Mac- 
Lachan  straightway  lifted  up  his  voice :  — 

"  A  tinker  in  Rotterdam,  't  would  seem, 
Had  made  cork  legs  his  study  and  theme, 
Each  joint  was  as  strong  as  an  iron  beam 
And  the  springs  were  a  compound  of  clockwork 

and  steam. 
Ri-tu  —  " 

The  diplomatic  dissuasions  of  the  head 
waiter,  added  to  the  pained  and  profane 
protests  of  his  companion,  induced  the 
singer  to  stop  at  that  point.  But  the  lady- 
under-full-sail  arose  with  a  proud,  dis- 
gusted expression  and  stalked  out,  drawing 
her  escort  in  her  wake  and  uttering  loud 
and  refined  reflections  upon  the  vulgar 
environment.  Thus  was  left  to  Captain 
Nelson,  resuming  his  seat,  a  clear  view  to 
the  far-rear  table.  This  table,  he  was  aes- 
thetically pleased  to  note,  was  occupied  by 

138 


MacLachan 


a  distinctively  pretty  girl.  The  girl,  as  he 
was  humanly  affected  in  perceiving,  was 
exhibiting  what,  all  silly  mock  modesty 
apart,  he  could  interpret  only  as  a  marked 
interest  in  his  own  romantic  and  attractive 
personality. 

"  What  for  are  you  swelling  up  like  a 
bullpout,  John  ?"  inquired  his  companion, 
who,  having  his  back  turned,  had  seen 
nothing  of  the  byplay. 

The  sailor  waved  a  jaunty  hand.  "  Noth- 
ing ;  nothing  at  all.  It  often  happens  to 
me.  Just  a  pretty  lass  in  the  offing  flying 
signals." 

Without  turning,  MacLachan  made 
some  references  of  a  libelous  character 
concerning  a  Babylonian  lady  whose  an- 
tiquity is  the  only  excuse  for  her  even 
being  mentioned  by  respectable  lips. 

"Babylon,  Long  Island?"  queried  the 
captain.  "  I  've  got  an  aunt  lives  there. 
You  think  this  young  lady  comes  from 
those  parts?" 


Our  Square 


"How  do  I  know?"  growled  the  tailor, 
and  explained  in  biting  terms  that  his 
citation  was  symbolic,  not  geographic. 

"Hum!"  said  the  seafarer.  "She's  a 
little  high-colored,  I  admit,  but  that  don't 
make  her  what  you  say.  Anyway,  I  '11  just 
run  down  and  speak  a  word  of  politeness 
to  her.  By  the  time  you  've  finished  that 
drink  and  the  next  I  '11  be  back." 

The  incognita  received  Captain  Nelson 
with  a  direct  and  unsmiling  handshake. 

"You  know  me,"  she  instructed  him 
under  her  breath  as  a  waiter  came  up. 
"We're  old  acquaintances."  Then  in  full 
voice :  "  I  hardly  recognized  you  at  first. 
How  long  is  it  since  I  've  seen  you?" 

Necessity  for  immediate  invention  was 
obviated  by  the  opportune  arrival  of  the 
waiter.  Glancing  at  the  tall,  icy  glass  in 
front  of  his  new  acquaintance,  the  bold 
mariner  said:  "I'll  take  the  same,"  and  was 
considerably  disconcerted  when  the  waiter 
passed  along  the  word  :  "  One  lemonade." 
140 


MacLachan 


"  Now/'  said  the  girl  sharply  as  soon  as 
the  waiter  had  left,  "  who  is  your  friend 
that  sings  ?" 

"  His  name  's  MacLachan.  He  's  all 
right,  only  —  " 

"  Bring  him  here." 

"But  first  can't  I  —  " 

"  Bring  him  here,"  repeated  the  girl 
inexorably.  "  I  like  his  voice." 

Sadly  the  shattered  seafarer  retraced  his 
course.  MacLachan  listened,  demurred, 
growled,  acquiesced.  As  the  pair  walked 
along,  the  tailor  reeling  a  bit,  the  girl 
was  busy  searching  for  something  under 
the  table.  She  did  not  lift  her  face  until 
the  men  were  beside  her.  Then  she  rose 
and  looked  up  at  MacLachan. 

"  Dad,"  she  said. 

MacLachan  went  stark,  staring  sober 
in  one  pulse-beat.  But  all  he  said  was 
"Oh  !  "  That  is  all,  I  am  told,  that  men 
say  when  they  are  shot  through  the  heart. 
Nelson  slid  a  chair  behind  his  friend's 
141 


Our  Square 


trembling  knees.  He  sat  down.  Bend- 
ing forward,  he  glared  into  the  garishly 
splotched  face  of  his  daughter  and  put  his 
hand  to  his  throat,  struggling  for  speech. 
A  door  behind  closed,  and  a  cheerful, 
boyish  voice  said :  — 

"  Hello,  little  girl.  Been  waiting  long  ? " 

The  wild-rose  face  dimpled  and  blos- 
somed into  sweetness  under  the  layers  of 
paint.  "  Hello,  Jim-boy.  Get  yourself  a 
chair." 

"  Introduce  me  to  your  friends,"  said 
the  newcomer. 

"That  one  used  to  be  my  old  dad," 
said  the  girl  slowly. 

The  young  man  whistled  as  he  drew  in 
his  chair.  "  Quite  a  family  party,"  he 
remarked. 

"Who  is  this  ?"  demanded  MacLachan. 

"  My  husband." 

"  Your  —  your  husb  —  "  MacLachan 
took  a  deep  gulp  from  the  lemonade  glass 
which  the  resourceful  captain  thoughtfully 
142 


MacLachan 


thrust  into  his  hand.  "  Why,  he  —  he  's 
a  mere  laddie.  Can  he  support  ye?" 

"  He 's  making  seventy-five  a  week 
every  week  in  the  year,"  said  the  girl 
quietly.  "And  I'm  good  for  about  that 
average." 

"  You  ?  In  what  trade  ? "  demanded 
the  father  slowly  and  fearfully. 

"  The  movies.  Both  of  us.  He  's  a  set 
designer.  I  'm  an  ingenue.  Why  else 
would  I  be  all  gommered  up  like  this  " 
(she  touched  her  cheeks),  "  not  having 
time  to  wash  off"  my  make-up  ?  " 

"  How  long  have  ye  been  in  the  busi- 
ness?" faltered  MacLachan. 

"  Since  I  left.    It  was  hard  at  first." 

"When  I  saw  ye  in  the  street  that 
day--" 

She  nodded.  "  Yes;  I  was  just  out  of 
rehearsal." 

Then  the  devil's  pride  of  the  Scot,  re- 
calling with  fierce  self-pity  his  long  heart- 
break and  loneliness,  rose  in  a  flame  of 

143 


Our  Square 


resentment  and  seared  the  flowering  love 
in  his  heart. 

"  Ye  gave  me  no  word/'  he  snarled, 
rising.  "  Ye  knew  I  was  killing  myself 
for  lo — ,  for  shame  of  ye,  and  ye  let  be. 
What  do  I  owe  ye  but  a  curse !  " 

"That's  enough,"  said  the  boy  hus- 
band; but  his  voice  had  become  that  of  a 
man. 

"  Dad  !  "  cried  the  girl. 

MacLachan,  the  dour,  turned  away. 
Nelson  set  a  hand  on  his  arm,  but  he 
struck  it  down. 

"  Oh,  Jim-boy  !  "  whispered  the  girl  to 
her  husband.  "  I  can't  let  him  go  again." 

He  was  a  youth  of  resource,  that  hus- 
band; I'm  not  prepared  to  say  that  he 
did  n't  have  even  a  touch  of  genius. 
"  Granddad  !  "  he  said. 

"Eh?"  MacLachan  stopped,  as  if 
stricken  in  his  tracks. 

"What  do  you  think  of  her?"  Jim- 
boy  had  produced,  quick  as  conjuring,  a 
144 


MacLachan 


little  leather-mounted  photograph  which 
he  held  up  before  MacLachan's  eyes. 
"  Did  Meg  look  like  her  when  she  was  a 
baby?" 

"  The  varra  spit  an'  image,"  cried  Mac- 
Lachan,  reverting  to  his  broadest  Scotch. 
Then,  with  a  cry  that  shook  him :  "  My 
bairnie  !  " 

Meg  went  to  his  arms  in  a  leap. 

"And  you  may  believe  it  or  not  —  I 
would  not,  on  the  oath  of  a  chaplain  if  I 
had  not  seen  it  with  my  own  eyes,"  ran 
Captain  Nelson's  subsequent  narrative  to 
Our  Square,  "  but  I  saw  the  tears  on  those 
twin  gray  rocks  that  serve  MacLachan  for 
cheeks.  So  I  drifted  down  to  leeward  and 
gathered  my  coat  and  gave  three  waiters 
a  quarter  each  for  not  staring  and  came 
away  to  tell  you.  And  you  '11  forgive  me 
for  waking  the  two  of  you  up,  and  it  gone 
eight  bells  —  I  mean  midnight — but  that 
was  Mac's  last  word  as  I  left,  that  I  was 
to  tell  you.  He  said  you  'd  be  glad." 

«4S 


Our  Square 


Glad  we  were,  and  all  Our  Square 
joined  in  the  gladness,  for  it  was  a  changed 
and  softened  MacLachan  that  came  back 
to  us,  sober  and  strangely,  gently  awk- 
ward, the  next  day  after  a  night  spent 
with  "  my  family." 

"Ye  '11  not  see  me  drink-taken  again," 
he  promised  the  Little  Red  Doctor. 

That  good  word  went  swiftly.  Conse- 
quently it  was  the  greater  shock  when,  on 
the  very  next  Thursday  afternoon,  several 
of  us  who  had  run  into  the  Bonnie  Las- 
sie's studio  for  tea  and  the  weekly  inspec- 
tion of  ourselves  as  mirrored  in  her  work, 
heard  in  the  familiar  rumbling  baritone 
from  the  open  park  space:  — 

"  Horror  and  fright  were  in  his  face, 
The  neighbors  thought  he  was  running  a  race, 
He  clung  to  a  lamp-post  to  stay  his  pace, 
But  the  leg  broke  away  and  kept  up  the  chase, 
Ri-tu,  di-nu,  di-nu  —  di  —  na  —  day  ! 
Ri-tu,  di-nu,  di-nay  !  " 

"  My  God!  "  cried  the  Little  Red  Doc- 
tor in  consternation.    "  Mac  's  off  again." 
146 


MacLachan 


He  jumped  up,  but  the  Bonnie  Lassie 
was  quicker.  "  Let  me  get  him,"  she 
said,  and  ran  from  the  room. 

Almost  at  once  she  was  back,  her  face 
quivering.  "  Come  and  look  !  "  she  bade 
us. 

We  crowded  the  front  windows.  On 
a  bench  in  Our  Square  'slouched  a  thin, 
hard,  angular  figure,  terminating  in  a 
thin,  hard,  angular  face,  at  the  moment 
wide  open  and  pouring  forth  unabashed 
melody  for  the  apparent  benefit  of  a  much 
befrilled  vehicle,  which  was  being  pro- 
pelled back  and  forth  by  a  thin,  long  leg. 
MacLachan  was  entertaining  his  grand- 
daughter. 


The  Great  "Peacemaker 

A  Story  of  Neutrality  in  Our 
Square 

ONE  of  the  notable  sporting  events  of 
Our  Square  is  the  nightly  chess  duel 
at  Thornsen's  Elite  Restaurant.  Many  a 
beer,  not  a  few  dinners,  and  once  even  a 
bottle  of  real  champagne  won  and  lost, 
have  marked  the  enthusiasm  and  partisan- 
ship of  the  backers.  Personally  I  prefer 
David's  cavalry  dash  as  exemplified  in 
long-range  handling  of  doubled  rooks,  but 
there  are  plenty  who  swear  and  bet  by 
the  sapper-and-miner  doggedness  of  Jona- 
than's pawn  manipulations.  The  contest- 
ants have  been  known  as  David  and  Jona- 
than to  Our  Square  for  ten  years,  except 
for  the  late,  melancholy  months  following 
the  combat  which  broke  off  all  relations 
and  left  the  corner  table  at  Thornsen's 
148 


'The  Great  Peacemaker 

vacant.  Since  then  the  light-minded  — 
such  as  Cyrus  the  Gaunt  —  have  called 
them  David  and  Goliath. 

David  is  a  little,  old,  hot-hearted  French- 
man whose  real  name  is  Henri  Dumain. 
Hermann  Groll,  alias  Jonathan,  alias  (alas !) 
Goliath,  is  a  ponderous  and  gentle  old  Ger- 
man. Their  first  meeting  was  at  Thornsen's, 
back  early  in  the  century,  when  there  were 
only  ten  tables  in  the  place  and  the  front 
window  shyly  invited  the  public  through 
the  medium  of  a  guinea-chicken,  a  fish  in 
season,  and  two  chops  with  their  paper- 
frilled  shanks  engaged  like  buttoned  foils. 
In  those  days  Henri,  a  newcomer,  sat  back 
against  the  side  wall  and  unobtrusively 
watched  a  guerrilla  campaign  between 
Hermann  and  a  nondescript  casual  patron 
with  weak  eyes  and  a  deprecating  man- 
ner, of  whom  none  of  us  knew  anything 
except  that  he  came  from  somewhere  on 
Avenue  B  and  had  an  irritating  trick  of 
answering  queen's  gambit  by  pawn  to 
149 


Our  Square 

king's  rook  4.  But  one  evening  two  thick- 
booted  strangers  interrupted  the  game  and 
took  away  the  eccentric  pawn-pusher.  He 
had,  it  appeared,  flavored  his  aged  aunt's 
soup  with  arsenic.  Life  has  its  thrills  in 
Our  Square! 

Hermann  was  disconsolate.  "A  pity," 
he  murmured.  "  I  should  have  check- 
mated in  four  moves." 

"  Your  pardon,  but  I  think  not,"  said 
a  courteous  but  positive  voice. 

Hermann  looked  up  and  saw  Henri. 
"You  think  not?"  he  said  mildly.  "Maybe 
so.  We  will  try.  Sit  down." 

They  played  it  out.  Owing  to  an  un- 
foreseen brilliant  diversion  on  the  part  of 
the  newcomer's  knight,  the  struggle  was 
prolonged  for  twenty  moves  before  vic- 
tory went  to  the  Teuton.  He  rose. 

"  The  sacrifice  of  the  rook's  pawn," 
he  observed,  "  was  able.  Very  able.  To- 
morrow evening  ? " 

"  With  pleasure,"  answered  his  adver- 
150 


The  Great  Peacemaker 

sary.  Thereafter  they  played  nightly,  with 
almost  equal  fortunes,  and  as  they  played 
their  association  ripened  into  friendship, 
and  their  friendship,  through  sympathies 
subtle  and  strange  in  two  characters  so  ap- 
parently unlike,  into  the  love  that  passeth 
the  love  of  woman.  They  became  David 
and  Jonathan  indeed,  and  one  of  the  pleas- 
antest  sights  that  helped  me  to  peaceful 
dreams  was  the  frequent  glimpse  I  got  of 
the  big  German  and  the  little  Frenchman 
walking  home  after  the  battle  arm  in  arm 
across  Our  Square. 

Each  had  been  a  lone  spirit,  craving 
companionship.  And  nearest  to  the  lonely 
heart  of  each  was  the  struggle  and  achieve- 
ment of  an  only  son  in  the  other  half  of 
the  world;  one  carving  out  a  business 
career  in  Algiers,  the  other  introducing 
American  ideas  in  horticulture  to  the  staid 
garden  scientists  of  Wiirtemberg.  Pres- 
ently they  took  to  reading  their  boys'  letters 
in  common ;  and  they  would  chuckle,  or 


Our  Square 

look  serious,  or  debate,  or  prophesy  with  a 
single  and  equal  interest  whether  it  were 
a  matter  of  Hermann,  Jr.,  or  of  young 
Robert  in  Africa.  Comradeship  can  go  no 
deeper.  The  flash  of  a  foreign  postage 
stamp  across  the  marble-topped  table  was 
the  signal  for  Elsa,  the  polyglot  cashier 
of  the  Elite,  to  set  down  one  more  drink 
than  usual,  for  it  invariably  meant  a  pro- 
longed and  confidential  confab  after  the 
game  was  over.  Tradition  held  their  chosen 
table  always  in  reserve.  And  tradition  has 
all  the  force  and  more  than  the  respect  of 
law  in  Our  Square. 

Judge,  then,  of  our  amazement  at  the 
unprecedented  behavior  of  Inky  Mike  on 
a  certain  evening  a  little  before  the  reg- 
ular hour  for  the  chess-players  to  appear. 
The  world  without  was  big  with  the  pres- 
age of  tremendous  events  just  then,  but 
this  was  forgotten  for  the  moment  in  the 
shock  of  Mike's  performance.  He  saun- 
tered down  the  length  of  the  aisle,  an  ex- 
152 


"The  Great  Peacemaker 

pression  of  self-confidence  upon  his  smeary 
countenance,  and  coolly  dropped  into 
Jonathan's  chair,  nodding  to  Elsa,  the 
pretty  polyglot.  Now  Inky  Mike  plumes 
himself  upon  a  "  connection  with  the 
press"  (through  the  rollers,  it  is  under- 
stood in  Our  Square,  though  he  is  loftily 
vague  about  it)  and  the  passion  of  his  life 
is  to  pick  news  "off  the  wires"  and  an- 
nounce it  in  advance  of  print,  in  some 
startling  manner.  This  might  be  one  of  his 
coups.  Elsa  regarded  him  with  puzzled 
suspicion.  Then  she  descended  upon  him, 
polite  but  with  firm  purpose  of  eviction. 

"Bitte"  she  said,  with  the  queenly  ges- 
ture of  one  accustomed  to  command. 

Mike  lifted  one  eyebrow,  and  that  with 
an  effort.  Otherwise  he  stirred  not. 

"  S'il  'vous  plait!  "  said  the  little  cashier 
determinedly. 

"  Mine  's  a  beer,"  returned  the  smeary 
one. 

"  If  you  please !  "  she  stamped  her  foot 

'53 


Our  Square 


in  the  universal  and  unmistakable  lan- 
guage. 

"  Oh,  I  got  you  the  foist  time,"  drawled 
Mike.  "You  should  worry.  They  won't 
be  here." 

"No — o — o — oah?"  queried  Elsa  in  a 
soaring  whoop  of  amazement. 

"  Not  this  evenin',  nor  any  other  eve- 
nin' !  You  can  plant  a  '  To  Let '  sign  on 
their  table.  They  won't  care." 

"Warum?  Pourquoi  pas?    W'y   not?" 

The  repository  of  terrible  secrets  deliv- 
ered himself  of  his  theme  in  complacent 
triumph.  "War's  just  declared  between 
France  and  Germany.  That 's  w'y  not." 

Thus  the  tremendous  news  came  to 
Thornsen's.  On  the  heels  of  it  came  the 
Teutonic  Jonathan.  Inky  Mike  rose  as- 
tounded and  hastily  moved,  for  he  is  suf- 
ficiently one  of  us  to  respect  the  Square's 
traditions. 

"Excuse  me"  he  apologized.  "Is  Mis- 
ter—  is  your  side  pardner  coming?" 

154 


The  Great  Peacemaker 

The  answer  to  the  question  was  given 
in  the  person  of  the  Gallic  David.  Inky 
Mike  gaped  at  them. 

"Will  they  mix  it,  d'ye  think  ?  'V  he 
inquired  in  an  awed  and  hopeful  tone  of 
Cyrus  the  Gaunt,  who  was  eating  ice 
cream  at  an  adjoining  table  with  the 
Bonnie  Lassie.  Those  were  the  days  when 
the  Bonnie  Lassie  was  sculping  Cyrus  the 
Gaunt  and  Cyrus  was  acting  as  chauffeur 
to  ten  tons  of  steam  roller  on  a  bet,  and 
each  was  discovering  the  other  to  be  the 
most  wonderful  person  in  the  world  —  in 
which  they  were  n't  so  far  wrong  as  a 
cynical  mind  might  suppose. 

Cyrus  did  not  think;  at  least  not  for 
the  inkful  one's  benefit.  He  acted.  It  was 
done  unobtrusively,  his  shifting  to  the  table 
next  the  chess  rivals.  They  did  not  notice 
it.  They  did  not  notice  anything  but  each 
other.  David  was  breathing  hard,  as  he 
took  his  seat,  and  a  queer  light  flickered 
in  his  eyes. 

155 


Our  Square 


"  You  take  black  to-night,"  said  Jona- 
than slowly. 

His  friend  pushed  the  chessboard  aside. 
"You  have  heard?"  he  said,  and  pulling 
a  newspaper  from  his  pocket  slapped  it  on 
the  table. 

Now  the  doubly  damned  devil  of  mis- 
chance influenced  him  to  reach  into  the 
wrong  pocket,  so  he  drew  forth  not  the 
"Extry — Extry"  which  he  had  just 
bought  of  Cripple  Chris  on  the  corner,  but 
an  earlier  copy  of  the  "  Courrier  des  Etats- 
Unis."  Jonathan  stiffened  in  his  chair. 

"  I  do  not  read  that  language,"  he  said 
deliberately. 

"  You  have  then  perhaps  lost  your  mind 
since  yesterday,"  said  the  fiery  little  French- 
man. 

"  I  have  the  mind  I  have  always  had. 
It  is  a  German  mind,"  was  the  grim  re- 
sponse. 

"Then  it  is  the  mind  of  a  savage!" 
cried  the  other. 


'The  Great  Peacemaker 

The  big  man  got  to  his  feet.  The  little 
one  was  up  as  quickly.  Cyrus  the  Gaunt 
laid  a  hand,  every  finger  of  which  had  the 
grip  of  a  lobster's  claw,  on  the  shoulder 
of  each. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said  quietly.  "Let's 
arbitrate." 

"But,"  began  the  Frenchman,"!  — 
he—" 

"  There  's  a  lady  waiting  to  speak  to 
you,"  interrupted  Cyrus. 

The  Bonnie  Lassie  stood,  smiling  but 
anxious-eyed,  behind  his  shoulder.  David 
sprang  to  get  her  a  chair.  Then  they  in- 
vited me  into  consultation,  and  we  sat  in 
solemn  conclave  while  Inky  Mike  hov- 
ered, with  diminishing  hopes,  on  the  out- 
skirts. At  the  close  there  was  ratified  what 
I  believe  to  have  been  the  first  agreement 
of  total  neutrality  in  the  present  world 
conflict.  By  its  provisions  every  topic  hav- 
ing to  do  with  the  war  or  any  of  the  par- 
ties to  it  was  rigorously  tabooed.  Both  the 

1S7 


Our  Square 

German  and  the  French  language,  even 
for  purposes  of  exclamation  and  emphasis, 
were  to  be  eschewed.  Literature,  art,  and 
music  were,  however,  to  remain  open  top- 
ics, irrespective  of  nationality.  And  chess, 
that  studious  mimicry  of  what  is  most  ter- 
rible in  the  world,  was  to  proceed  as  usual. 
That  evening  David  and  Jonathan  walked 
homeward  across  Our  Square  arm  in  arm. 
By  what  unremitting  exercise  of  self- 
control  and  loyalty  those  two  kept  the 
pact  through  the  tinder-and-powder  events 
of  succeeding  months  only  they  them- 
selves know.  It  was  pitiful  and  at  the 
same  time  beautiful  to  see  the  subterfuges 
whereby  they  preserved  their  affection 
from  the  blight  of  the  all-devouring  war, 
even  in  its  remote  associations.  There 
came  a  day  when  mails  arrived  by  a 
Holland  steamer.  That  evening  David 
waited  expectant.  But  his  friend  gave  out 
no  news.  The  natural  impatience  of  the 
Frenchman  broke  bounds. 
158 


'The  Great  Peacemaker 

"And  the  young  Hermann?"  he  de- 
manded. "  How  goes  it  with  our  special 
assistant  to  Mother  Nature?" 

"  It  goes  —  it  goes  well,"  answered 
Jonathan. 

"He  persuades  the  others  to  his  ideas, 
always  ? " 

"  Hermann  is  no  longer  in  the  gardens. 
He  — he  has  left." 

"Left!"  cried  David.  "Given  up  — " 
He  stopped  short,  looking  into  the  face 
of  his  friend,  a  face  whose  eyes  shifted  un- 
easily away  from  his.  Then  comprehen- 
sion came  to  him,  and  he  did  a  fine  and 
beautiful  thing. 

"To  the  brave,"  said  he,  lifting  his 
glass,  "  who  face  death  for  the  country 
that  they  love." 

Was  there,  perhaps,  a  small  savor  of  salt 
to  the  beer  which  Jonathan  set  down  after 
his  draught  ?  If  so,  he  need  not  have  been 
ashamed.  It  seemed  to  me,  when  I  saw 
them  going  home  that  night,  that  their 

'59 


Our  Square 


arms  were  hooked  a  little  closer  than 
common. 

Not  long  after  it  was  David's  turn  to 
get  a  letter.  He  sat  fingering  it  when 
Jonathan  entered. 

"From  our  young  Robert?"  asked  the 
German. 

David  nodded. 

"  Am  I  to  see  it  ? " 

"  He  says  —  he  says  some  things  about 
• — about  the  war,"  faltered  the  Frenchman. 
"Youth  is  perhaps  harsh.  And  he  is  a  high 
spirit  —  my  boy." 

Something  in  the  tone  told  the  Ger- 
man. "  He  has  enlisted  ?" 

The  other  father  nodded. 

"  I  am  glad,"  said  the  German  simply. 
"  And  may  God  bring  him  safely  through ! " 

How  that  could  have  happened  which 
did  thereafter  come  to  pass  between  two 
souls  so  fine,  so  brave,  so  forbearing,  is 
one  of  the  mysteries  of  the  madness  of 
the  human  heart.  It  was  on  the  evening 
1 60 


The  Great  Peacemaker 

when  Elsa,  the  polyglot,  had  just  com- 
pleted her  chef-d'oeuvre  of  embroidery 
which  still  hangs  upon  the  wall.  It  is  a 
legend  subscribed  in  a  double  scroll,  which 
is  held  in  the  beak  of  a  dove  of  peace 
about  half  the  size  of  the  scroll,  the  whole 
being  tastefully  surrounded  by  a  frieze  of 
olive  branches  done  in  blue,  Elsa's  green 
yarn  having  given  out  prematurely.  The 
legend  reads :  — 

BE   NEUTRAL 

SPEAK   ENGLISH 

THINK   AMERICAN 

Out  of  compliment  she  had  hung  it 
over  the  chess-players'  table.  The  game 
developed  a  swift  and  interesting  attack, 
that  evening,  down  an  open  center,  David 
having  castled  on  the  queen's  side,  and 
brought  both  rooks  into  early  action.  All 
was  going  well  for  him,  when  a  band  out- 
side halted  and  began  to  play  "  Die  Wacht 
am  Rhein."  That  they  played  it  atro- 
ciously out  of  tune  is  unimportant  to  the 
161 


Our  Square 


issue.  Rendered  by  a  celestial  choir  that 
particular  song  would  probably  have  in- 
spired David  with  frenzy.  The  first  symp- 
tom was  that  he  moved  his  queen  upon  a 
diagonal  with  his  king,  open  to  an  oppos- 
ing bishop.  Just  what  the  course  of  events 
subsequently  was  I  cannot  say,  as  my  table 
was  in  the  far  end.  But  I  heard  Elsa's 
lamentable  voice,  startled  quite  out  of  the 
practice  of  the  language  neutrality  which 
she  preached,  and  this  is  what  I  heard:  — 

"Oh,  Messieurs!  Oh!  Meine  Herrenl! 
Gents!!!" 

Crash !  The  chessboard  was  swept  to 
the  floor,  and  the  contestants  rolled  after 
it,  tight  clinched.  They  tipped  over  two 
neighboring  tables,  and  a  plate  of  salad,  a 
soft-shell  crab,  and  a  fried  chicken,  violat- 
ing their  neutrality,  descended  to  take  a 
conspicuous  part  in  the  fight.  Over  and 
over  rolled  the  combatants,  now  one  on 
top,  now  the  other,  clawing,  kicking, 
pummeling,  and  filling  the  air  with  bi- 
162 


"The  Great  Peacemaker 

lingual  fury.  It  was  all  very  comic,  for  the 
onlookers  who  did  n't  understand,  and  the 
"  Tribune  "  reporter  made  a  good  story  of 
it  next  day.  But  he  did  not  know  —  how 
could  he?  —  the  underlying  tragedy;  the 
tragedy  of  hate,  where  love  had  been  and 
loneliness  in  the  place  of  comradeship. 
With  ordinary  luck  it  might  have  been 
kept  out  of  the  newspapers  and  the  police 
court,  but,  unfortunately,  Terry  the  Cop, 
a  wise  young  Daniel  of  Our  Square,  was 
followed  in  by  a  strange  policeman.  "And 
so,"  Terry  explained  to  me,  regretfully, 
"  I  had  to  make  the  pinch.  Would  n't  it 
make  you  sick?"  he  added.  "Two  good 
old  guys  like  them  !  War  sure  is  hell ! " 

Of  the  subsequent  proceedings,  Inky 
Mike  brought  us  a  fuller  report  than  the 
newspapers.  The  Little  Red  Doctor,  be- 
ing appealed  to  to  procure  bail,  had  done 
so,  and  had  further  taken  two  stitches  in 
the  big  man's  head  and  set  a  disjointed 
thumb  for  the  little  man.  In  the  police 

163 


Our  Square 

court,  thanks  to  Terry,  who  "  put  him 
wise,"  the  judge  had  bidden  the  two  bel- 
ligerents shake  hands  and  go  free.  They 
shook  hands,  at  arm's  length,  and  went 
free,  separately. 

"  No  more  David  an*  Jonathan  stuff," 
gloated  Inky  Mike.  "  David  and  Goliath 
is  more  in  their  line.  This  finishes  their 
game." 

"Ah,  Smart  Aleck!"  said  Elsa  resent- 
fully. "  You  know  nothing.  'S  macht 
nichts  ausl  fa  ne  signifie  rieni  Fudge  is 
what  I  try  to  say.  They  come  back  this 
evening,  good  as  new." 

Come  back  they  did  not,  however.  In 
vain  did  Elsa  keep  her  eyes  on  the  clock 
and  her  hopes  high.  When  nine  o'clock 
struck  and  the  table  beneath  her  desk  was 
still  vacant  she  burst  into  tears,  gave  a 
Magyar  from  Second  Avenue  eight  dollars 
and  sixty  cents  change  out  of  a  five-dollar 
bill  (the  Magyar  has  n't  been  seen  since), 
and  rushed  forth  from  the  place  with  her 
164 


The  Great  Peacemaker 

apron  over  her  head,  finding  refuge  on  a 
bench  of  Our  Square,  where  she  sat  openly 
wailing  until  Terry  the  Cop  led  her  home. 

"  Will  they  never  come  back  to  their 
little  table,  do  you  think?"  miserably  in- 
quired Polyglot  Elsa  of  the  Little  Red 
Doctor  several  evenings  later,  gazing  with 
blurred  eyes  down  upon  the  stolidly  op- 
posing armies  of  chessmen  in  their  brave 
array. 

The  Little  Red  Doctor  shook  a  dubious 
head.  "That's  a  bad  mess,"  he  said. 

"  But  they  have  nothing  else  but  them- 
selves !  "  cried  the  girl.  "  So  sad  it  is.  Per- 
haps," she  added  with  timid  hopefulness, 
"you  could  make  a  peace  again  between 
them." 

"  I  've  tried.  The  only  peacemaker 
strong  enough  to  bring  them  together, 
I  'm  afraid,  is  my  old  friend  Death." 

Jonathan  almost  wholly  disappeared  from 
Our  Square  after  the  rupture.  Not  so  David. 
He  was  much  in  evidence.  Usually  he 


Our  Square 

whistled  as  he  walked  with  a  lightsome 
and  swaggering  step  to  show  that  he  had  n't 
a  care  in  the  world.  But  when  you  got 
near  him  you  saw  the  hollows  under  his 
eyes.  Pride  carried  him  even  into  Thorn- 
sen's,  and  almost  to  the  vacant  table  in  the 
corner.  Not  quite.  For  thereon  stood  the 
little  wood  soldiers,  sturdy  and  stanch,  and 
above  them  leaned  Elsa,  smiling  welcome 
to  him — and  hope.  David,  the  irrecon- 
cilable, stopped  short,  dropped  into  the 
nearest  chair,  turned  his  back  upon  that 
haunted  corner,  and  ordered  his  favorite 
refreshment  in  a  voice  so  cheerful  that  it 
almost  chirped.  Halfway  through  his  cara~ 
fon9  having  caught  Elsa's  gaze,  melancholy, 
accusing,  and  imploring,  he  swore,  choked 
over  his  vin  ordinaire,  and  retreated  in  bad 
order  to  the  shelter  of  the  outer  darkness 
without  paying  his  check. 

How  long  he  wandered  about  Our  Square 
I  cannot  say.   He  was  there  when  I  crossed 
to  Thornsen's  at  nine  o'clock.    He  was 
166 


"The  Great  Peacemaker 

there  when  I  peered  out  at  ten.  He  was 
still  there  when  I  returned  home  at  eleven- 
fifteen. 

So  was  Jonathan.  The  reason  why  we  of 
the  Square  had  not  seen  him  of  late  was 
that  he  had  chosen  for  his  promenade  an 
hour  when  he  would  be  unlikely  to  en- 
counter any  of  us.  This  time  he  met  Da- 
vid. They  passed  each  other  within  a  foot. 
Jonathan  was  profoundly  absorbed  in  the 
condition  of  a  tree  trunk  which  he  had 
passed  without  interest  some  thousands 
of  times.  David  studied  the  constellation 
Orion  with  a  concentrated  attention  quite 
creditable  in  one  so  new  to  a  passion  for 
astronomy.  I  sat  down  on  a  bench  and 
gave  vent  to  my  feelings.  Said  Terry  the 
Cop  to  me,  approaching  solicitously :  — 

"  Are  ye  laughing,  dominie,  or  choking 
to  death  ? " 

"I  am  laughing,  Terry,"  I  said. 

"  And  why  are  ye  laughing,  dominie  ?  " 

"  I  am  laughing,  Terry,"  I  informed 
167 


Our  Square 


him,  "because  it  is  better  to  laugh  than 
to  do  a  certain  other  thing."  And  I  de- 
clined, with  proper  dignity,  his  well-meant 
but  ill-informed  offer  to  escort  me  home. 

There  came  a  black  day  for  our  fiery 
old  French  David  when  the  Dutch  liner 
arrived  bearing  assorted  mails.  That  after- 
noon he  paced,  stony-eyed  and  silent,  a 
square  swept  vacant  by  savage  rain  blasts, 
with  a  half-ounce  of  letter  over  his  heart 
and  a  thousand  tons  of  grief  pressing  down 
above  it.  Presently  another  bedraggled 
wayfarer  entered  the  Square,  wandered 
aimlessly,  and  sprawled  his  ponderous  bulk 
upon  the  corner  bench,  where  the  um- 
brella tree  affords  a  partial  shelter.  The 
Teuton  Jonathan  was  also  braving  the 
storm. 

Back  and  forth,  back  and  forth,  through 
the  fierce,  gray  slant  of  the  rain,  marched 
the  Frenchman,  drawing  at  each  turn  a 
little  nearer  to  the  corner  bench.  The 
German  did  not  move  nor  look  up.  He 
168 


The  Great  Peacemaker 

seemed  lost  in  reverie.  A  square  of  white 
cardboard  lay  on  his  knee.  His  eyes  stared 
out  over  it,  brooding.  At  length  the 
marcher  in  the  rain  came  to  the  right- 
about directly  in  front  of  the  bench  and 
stopped,  rubbing  his  forehead  like  a  man 
struggling  out  of  a  dream.  David  had  rec- 
ognized Jonathan. 

He  took  an  impetuous  step  forward.  A 
gust  of  wind  plucked  the  square  of  card- 
board from  the  unheeding  German's  knee. 
It  fell,  displaying  to  the  newcomer  the 
double  eagle  of  imperial  Germany.  David's 
face,  which  had  softened,  became  a  mask 
of  fury.  Another  step  forward  and  he  saw 
something  else  above  the  insigne,  a  bar  of 
black.  He  stooped  and  picked  up  the  card. 
Jonathan  neither  saw  nor  moved. 

Beneath  the  symbol  on  the  card  stood 
a  line  of  German  script.  David  lifted  his 
eyes  from  it  and  looked  about  him.  In 
the  doorway  of  the  Elite  Restaurant,  just 
across  the  asphalt,  he  saw  Polyglot  Elsa. 
169 


Our  Square 


"BeMte!"  cried  Elsa  when  she  saw 
his  face.  "  Sainte  Vierge  !  What  has  hap- 
pened ? " 

"  Mademoiselle,  translate  for  me,''  cried 
the  little  old  Frenchman  :  "  '  Auf  dem 
Felde  der  Ehre  gefallen.'  ' 

"  *  Dead  on  the  field  of  honor/  What — " 

But  he  was  already  halfway  back,  fight- 
ing his  way  through  the  gusts.  With  grave 
misgivings  Elsa  saw  him  advance  upon  his 
former  friend  and  bitter  foe.  She  wished 
Terry  would  come.  Terry  was  a  mighty 
discourager  of  trouble  and  violence. 

David  advanced  to  the  sheltered  bench 
without  speaking.  Quietly  he  seated  him- 
self beside  Jonathan.  Jonathan  might 
have  been  dead  for  all  that  he  heeded. 
His  mind  was  in  another  world.  David 
touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Hein?"  said  the  big  German  vaguely. 
ft'S  ist  du?"  using  involuntarily  the  ten- 
der pronoun  of  affection.  Comprehension 
and  remembrance  came  back  to  him  in- 
170 


The  Great  Peacemaker 

stantly,  and  he  shrank  away  with  an  inar- 
ticulate snarl  of  hatred. 

David  drew  from  his  pocket  the  letter 
that  had  crushed  the  heart  beneath  it. 
He  spread  it  on  his  knee. 

"  I  have  seen,  Hermann,"  he  said  bro- 
kenly. "  Look  you." 

Hermann  looked.  He  looked  from  the 
gallant  tricolor  to  the  words  below,  and 
one  phrase  stood  forth  and  went  to  his 
heart.  "  Mort  dans  la  gloire  pour  la  patrie  : 
Robert  Dumain." 

Jonathan's  fingers  crept  to  David's  knee 
and  clung  there.  David's  hand  went  to 
Jonathan's  shoulder.  The  two  old  heads 
sagged  lower  and  lower  and  closer  and 
closer. 

And  Terry  the  Cop,  who  had  crossed 
the  street  in  five  leaps  with  the  liveliest 
anticipation  of  trouble  in  the  first  degree, 
took  one  look,  turned  hastily  away,  and 
huskily  commanded  a  storm-beaten  spar- 
row in  the  path  to  move  on. 


Orpheus 

Who  Made  Music  in  Our  Square 

A  PLAYWRIGHT  named  Euripides 
-<L\.  was  the  means  of  bringing  us  to- 
gether. He  sat  hunched  upon  a  bench  in 
Our  Square  —  not  Euripides,  of  course, 
but  this  strange  disciple  of  his  —  over  a 
little  book.  When  the  church  clock 
struck  twelve  he  arose  and  unfolded  him- 
self to  preposterous  lengths.  He  stepped 
casually  over  a  four-foot  wire,  strode 
across  forbidden  grass  plots,  and  leaned 
pensively  against  the  northern  boundary 
fence.  Although  it  was  a  six-foot  fence, 
he  jutted  considerably  above  it.  I  glanced 
from  him  back  to  the  bench  he  had  just 
quitted.  There  lay  his  book.  I  picked  it 
up.  It  was  "The  Baccha?."  In  the  origi- 
nal, if  you  please! 

172 


Orpheus 


Now,  to  find  a  gigantic  and  unexplained 
stranger  in  the  metropolitan  hurry  and 
stress  of  Our  Square  perusing  the  classic 
version  of  the  very  ?Greekest  and  most 
mystic  of  dramas,  by  the  spluttering  ray 
of  Jove's  own  lightning  pent  up  and  set 
to  work  in  a  two-by-one  frosted  globe  at 
so  many  cents  per  kilowatt,  is  a  startling 
experience  for  a  quiet,  old  semi-retired 
pedagogue  like  myself.  I  pocketed  the 
volume  (which  was  in  a  semiuncial  text 
like  running  tendrils)  and  sat  down  to 
consider  its  owner.  Another  of  the  Thun- 
derer's bottled  bolts  diffused  its  light  where 
he  now  stood,  and  set  forth  his  face.  It 
was  young  and  comely  and  gallant,  with 
a  wrapt,  intent  melancholy;  the  face  of  a 
seeker,  baffled  but  still  defiant  of  despair. 
It  seemed  to  be  turned  toward  a  star  that 
I  could  not  see. 

I  sat  and  waited  for  Terry  the  Cop  to 
arrive  on  his  stated  rounds.  If  that  shrewd 
young  guardian  of  the  local  peace  did  not 

173 


Our  Square 

already  know  about  the  classical  stranger, 
he  could  be  depended  upon  to  find  out. 
When  his  heavy  tread  paused  before  my 
bench  I  indicated  the  trespassing  giant. 

"Terry,"  said  I,  "what  is  that?" 

"That,"  replied  Terry  promptly,  "is 
a  Nut." 

"Where  does  it  come  from?" 

"  Search  me,  dominie.  It  just  kinda 
drops  in." 

"Often?" 

"  Every  night." 

"  Why  have  n't  I  seen  it  before  ? " 

"  You  hit  the  hay  too  early.  This  bird 
is  an  owl,  and  it  don't  begin  to  hoot  till 
late." 

"  Hoot  ?  "  I  repeated.  Terry's  symbol- 
ism sometimes  tends  to  the  obscure. 

"  Stick  around  a  few  minutes,"  advised 
the  wise  young  policeman,  "  and  you  '11 
hear  something." 

"Is  he  an  amateur  astronomer?"  I 
asked.  "Or  what  is  it  he  is  staring  at?" 


Orph 


eus 

Terry  pointed.  "  Look  between  those 
two  roofs.  See  a  little  light,  way  up 
there  ? "  I  did.  "  That 's  it.  That 's  the 
window/* 

"  Ah/'  said  I.    "  Romeo,  I  suppose." 

"  Long-distance  to  the  balcony,"  re- 
turned Terry  the  Cop,  who  does  not  lack 
literary  background.  "  That 's  the  upper 
wing  of  the  Samaritan  Hospital,  two  blocks 
away.  Sh-h-h  !  He  's  going  to  begin." 

The  stranger  had  taken  from  his  coat 
a  short,  slender  object  which  he  fitted  to- 
gether with  precision.  Now  he  threw  up 
his  head  and  set  it  to  his  lips.  Faint  and 
pure  as  the  song  of  a  bird,  heard  across 
the  hushed  reaches  of  a  forest,  the  music 
came  to  us.  It  was  a  wild,  soaring  mel- 
ody unknown  to  me,  but  as  I  listened  I 
thought  of  all  the  songs  with  which  reed 
and  pipe  have  ever  answered  to  the  breath 
of  man;  Pan's  minstrels,  and  the  glorified 
penny  whistle  of  Svengali  and  the  horns 
of  elfland  faintly  blowing,  and  the  witchery 

'75 


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of  the  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin;  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  all  these  and  more 
blended  in  the  rise  and  fall  of  those  magic 
measures. 

Silence  fell.  A  wakened  sleeper  in  a 
tree  twittered  a  sleepy  request  for  more. 
The  player  had  lowered  his  instrument 
and  was  leaning  against  the  rail,  gazing. 
At  that  distance  there  could  have  been  no 
answer  from  the  far  hospital  window ;  the 
tones  of  his  pipe  were  so  soft  as  hardly  to 
be  audible  where  we  stood.  Yet  he  pres- 
ently nodded  and  threw  up  his  hand,  and 
his  face  was  transfigured  with  a  wistful 
passion  as  he  lifted  the  slender  pipe  to  his 
lips  again.  This  time,  indeed,  I  knew  what 
he  played.  It  was  that  music  which,  above 
all  other,  embodies  the  soul  and  spirit  of 
immortal  youth;  youth  that  hopes  and 
fears  and  despairs  and  hopes  again ;  youth 
that  hungers  and  loves  and  suffers;  youth 
that  ever,  through  all  turmoil  and  grief 
and  wreckage,  is  imperishably  young  and 
176 


Orpheus 


immortally  lovely,  the  music  of  "  Bo- 
heme."  Again  the  strains  sank  and  died 
in  the  darkness. 

"  That 's  all,"  Terry  the  Cop  informed 
me.  "  It 's  their  signal.  And  he  always 
ends  on  that." 

"Signal?  At  that  distance?  Do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  she  —  whoever  she  is  — 
can  hear?" 

"Whether  she  hears  or  not,  she  seems 
to  get  somethin'  over  to  this  Romeo  guy." 

"  No,  Terry,"  I  said.  "  Not  Romeo.  An 
older  singer  and  a  greater."  And,  with  my 
hand  on  the  little  volume  in  my  pocket, 
I  gave  my  policeman  friend  the  benefit  of 
Gilbert  Murray's  matchless  translation : — 

"  In  the  elm  woods  and  the  oaken, 

There  where  Orpheus  harped  of  old, 
And  the  trees  awoke  and  knew  him, 
And  the  wild  things  gathered  to  him, 
As  he  sang  amid  the  broken 

Glens  his  music  manifold." 

"  Some  rag ! "  said  Terry  the  Cop  admir- 
ingly. 

177 


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"  That,  Terry,"  said  I,  indicating  the 
stranger,  who  was  once  more  lost  in  watch- 
fulness, "  is  Orpheus." 

This  was  too  much  of  a  strain  on  Terry's 
classic  lore.  "You  're  in  wrong  there,  dom- 
inie. He  don't  belong  to  any  Orpheus  nor 
Arion  nor  Liedertafel.  He  's  a  Greek  and 
his  name  is  Philip,  two  pops,  and  an  oulos." 

"  All  very  well,  Terry,"  said  I,  trying  him 
out.  "But  does  that  give  him  the  right  to 
play  a  musical  instrument  in  a  public  place 
at  an  unlawful  hour?" 

"Come  off,  dominie,"  said  Terry  the 
Cop  uneasily.  "  He  ain't  doing  any  harm." 

"  Disturbing  the  peace,"  I  pursued  se- 
verely, "  and  tramping  down  the  park  grass 
against  the  statute  thereunto  made  and  pro- 
vided. What  do  you  let  him  do  it  for, 
Terry?" 

"  Aw,  I  kinda  like  the  guy,"  admitted 

Terry  shamefacedly.  "  He 's  a  nut.    But 

he 's  a  good  nut.   I 'm  sorry  for  him.   He's 

up  against  it  with  that  girl.  She  ain't  ever 

178 


Orpheus 

coming  out  of  the  hospital,  I  guess.  Be- 
sides, he  did  me  a  good  turn  once." 

The  good  turn,  it  appeared,  had  con- 
sisted in  the  prompt  and  effective  wielding 
of  a  cane,  unceremoniously  borrowed  from 
a  passer-by  when  a  contingent  of  the  Shadow 
Gang  from  Second  Avenue  had  undertaken, 
in  pure  wantonness  of  spirit,  to  "jump" 
Terry.  Subsequently,  Orpheus  had  initi- 
ated Terry  into  some  technical  and  abstruse 
mysteries  of  stick  work,  whereby,  he  ex- 
plained, the  Orthian  shepherds  defended 
themselves  against  robbers  and  wolves  alike. 

"  I  told  him  to  keep  a  stick  with  him," 
said  Terry.  "  He  '11  need  it,  for  that  bunch 
will  get  to  him  some  time.  They  don't 
forget." 

No  weapon  was  in  the  Greek's  hand, 
however,  as  he  turned  away  toward  the 
nearest  exit.  Halfway  there  he  paused,  felt 
in  his  pocket,  and  hurried  over  to  his  bench 
with  a  look  of  dismay.  I  met  him,  hold- 
ing out  the  precious  book.  He  took  it  with 
179 


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a  sigh  of  relief,  thanking  me  with  precise 
but  curiously  accented  courtesy. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  text,"  I  observed. 

"  You  can  read  it  ? "  he  said  with  kin- 
dling eyes.  "You  read  the  Greek?" 

"Sure,"  put  in  Terry  the  Cop.  "The 
dominie  knows  all  the  languages  from 
Chinese  to  Williamsburg.  Dominie,  make 
you  acquainted  with  Mr.  Phil." 

Thus  I  met  Orpheus.  We  sat  on  a  bench 
until  the  stroke  01  three  brought  me  to  my 
senses,  while  he  declaimed  selected  passages 
in  a  voice  as  of  rolling  waters.  That  was 
the  first  of  many  nights  of  Dionysian  rev- 
elry on  the  slopes  of  Mount  Olympus, 
with  "The  Bacchag"  for  guidebook  and 
the  strange  piper  for  leader.  Never  would 
he  pipe  for  me,  however.  If  I  wished  to 
hear  the  soft  marvel  of  his  music  I  must 
wait  until  midnight  and  stand  apart  in  the 
shadow  to  listen  while  he  played  to  the 
far-away  beam  of  light  in  the  hospital 
wing.  Though  our  acquaintance  ripened 
1 80 


Orpheus 


swiftly  into  a  species  of  intimacy,  he  made 
no  reference  to  the  devotion  in  which  his 
life  centered.  He  had  the  gift  of  an  im- 
penetrable reserve. 

Concerning  himself,  he  was  only  less 
reticent.  From  casual  references,  however, 
I  gathered  that  he  was  the  son  of  a  mer- 
chant of  Lamia,  educated  in  England,  and 
sent  to  this  country  on  an  errand  of  com- 
merce, and  that  he  would  long  since  have 
returned  but  for  the  light  in  that  window. 

It  is  not  good  for  man  to  live  on  hope 
alone.  So  I  sought  to  involve  my  Greek  in 
the  close-woven  interests  of  Our  Square. 
I  took  him  to  dine  at  the  Elite  Restaurant, 
and  introduced  him  to  Polyglot  Elsa,  the 
cashier  (who  put  a  fearful  strain  on  his  cour- 
tesy with  her  barbarous  modern  Greek), 
and  impressed  him  into  the  amateur  police 
to  escort  MacLachan  the  Tailor  home, 
drunk  and  singing  "The  Cork  Leg,"  and 
even  got  him  to  pipe  gay  tunes  of  an  early 
evening  for  our  little  asphalt-dancers  to 
til 


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practice  by ;  but  always  back  of  his  gentle 
courtesy  and  tolerant  kindness  there  was 
an  aloofness  of  the  spirit,  as  if  he  had  but 
stepped  out,  a  godlike  spectator,  from  the 
limbo  of  some  remote  world  hidden  be- 
hind the  tendrils  and  leafage  of  that  won- 
derful semiuncial  text.  Then  one  night, 
when  he  had  sent  his  heart  and  hope  and 
longing  out  upon  the  wings  of  music 
through  the  night,  I  asked  him  to  help 
me  soothe  the  wakefulness  of  Leon  Cov- 
entry. Together  we  climbed  the  stifling 
stairs  of  the  old  mansion  to  the  top  floor 
where  Leon  the  Gnome  lay  eating  his  heart 
out  and  staring  from  an  empty  chair  that 
whispered  to  the  door  of  an  empty  room, 
its  oaken  bar  fallen,  its  little  white  bed 
smooth,  its  one  flower  withered  and  dead 
on  the  window  sill.  Little  was  said  be- 
tween the  swarthy  Gnome  on  the  bed  and 
the  splendid  young  god  sitting  beside  him, 
but  there  passed  between  them  some  sub- 
tle understanding  of  the  spirit.  Orpheus 
182 


Orpheus 


made  his  music  for  the  sick  man ;  almost 
such  music  as  he  had  sent  winging  through 
the  outer  darkness.  At  the  end  he  took 
the  Gnome's  gnarled  hand  in  his  own. 

"She  will  come  back,"  he  said.  "Be- 
lieve always  that  she  will  come  back.  It 
is  only  by  faith  that  we  hold  the  dreams 
that  are  truer  than  reality." 

Outside  Orpheus  turned  to  me.  "You 
believe  that,  do  you  not?"  he  asked. 

I  muttered  something. 

"I  must  believe  it,"  he  said  vehemently. 
"I  must  —  or  there  is  nothing  left." 

Then,  simply,  as  if  he  were  relating 
some  impersonal  anecdote,  he  told  me 
his  story,  one  of  those  swift,  inevitable, 
pregnant  romances  of  two  outlanders  in 
this  great  wilderness  which  we  call  New 
York. 

"  I  met  her  in  a  language  class.  We 
were  both  taking  Spanish.  It  was  to  help 
her  in  the  corporation  office  where  she 
worked.  We  lunched  at  the  same  place. 

•83 


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We  used  to  talk,  to  help  out  over  les- 
sons. She  was  French.  Her  name  was 
Toinette." 

He  handed  me  his  watch,  open.  The 
print  was  dim  and  vague,  but  in  the  very 
poise  of  the  head  was  the  incarnation  of 
mirth  and  youth.  "  She  is  very  lovely,'*  I 
said.  I  should  have  said  it  in  any  case.  In 
this  case  it  happened  to  be  true. 

"  She  is  little  and  quick  and  brown  and 
laughing.  We  Greeks  love  laughter.  She 
laughed  at  me  because  she  said  I  had  sol- 
emn eyes  like  an  owl.  Then  I  kissed  her 
and  she  did  not  laugh,  but  clung  to  me, 
and  I  felt  her  tears.  That  evening  we  heard 
'  La  Boheme,'  hand  in  hand,  and  I  played 
it  to  her  afterward.  I  have  played  it  to  her 
ever  since.  When  I  would  speak  to  her 
of  marriage  she  would  set  her  fingers  to 
my  lips  and  the  joy  would  die  out  of  her 
face.  Once  she  said  I  must  go  back  and 
forget  her.  Then  it  was  my  turn  to  laugh. 
We  do  not  love  and  forget,  we  Greeks. 
184 


Orpheus 


"  She  had  a  brother  serving  in  the  Ar- 
gonne.  He  died  dragging  a  wounded  com- 
rade to  safety.  She  was  very  proud  of  it. 
But  the  heart  that  had  been  working  so 
poorly  almost  stopped  working  at  all  when 
they  brought  her  the  news.  She  sent  for 
me  to  tell  me  that  she  must  go  to  the 
hospital.  That  was  why  she  would  not  let 
me  speak  of  marriage.  Her  heart  had 
always  been  weak,  and  she  feared  she  might 
be  an  invalid  and  a  burden  on  me.  As  if 
that  mattered !  '  So  I  could  not  let  you 
speak,'  she  said,  '  because  I  loved  you  so, 
and  I  might  have  been  weaker  than  my 
heart.'  They  took  her  to  the  Samaritan. 
That  is  her  room,  just  beyond  where  you 
see  the  speck  of  light.  Every  night  I  stand 
where  I  can  see  it  and  make  my  music 
for  her.  So  it  was  arranged  between  us." 

"  But,"  I  began,  and  bit  my  tongue  into 
silence. 

"True,"  he  said  equably.  "At  such  a 
distance  she  cannot  hear.  It  does  not 
185 


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matter.    She  knows  I  make  my  music  for 
her.  That  is  all  that  matters." 

"  How  long  since  you  have  seen  her?" 

"  April  the  24th." 

"  And  this  is  August !  Four  months ! 
Good  Heavens,  man,  how  is  that  ? " 

"'AnangkeJ  Fate."  he  murmured.  "It 
could  not  be  otherwise." 

"  Surely  it  could,"  I  protested.  "  Won't 
they  let  you  see  her  ? " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  But  that  *s  barbarous  !  Think  what 
she  must  be  suffering." 

"  Oh,  no.  She  understands.  It  is  I  who 
suffer." 

"Needlessly,"  I  cried.  "It  can  be  ar- 
ranged. You  must  see  her.  Four  months! 
Will  you  let  me  arrange  it?" 

"It  is  useless." 

I   believe  I  took  him   by  the  shoulder 
and  shook  him.  "  Don't  be  a  fool,"  I  bade 
him  savagely.    "  I  tell  you,  you  shall  see 
her.  At  once.  To-morrow." 
186 


Orpheus 


He  turned  upon  me  eyes  like  those  of 
an  animal  that  pleads  dumbly  against  tor- 
ture. "  It  cannot  be,"  he  said. 

"Why?" 

"  She  is  dead,"  he  whispered. 

"Dead?"  I  loosed  my  grasp  on  him. 
"But  you  play —  How  can  she —  When 
did  you  —  "  All  my  thought  and  speech 
were  jumbled  within  me.  "Dead?"  I 
finally  contrived  to  get  out.  "  When  did 
she  die?" 

"  On  the  last  day  of  April.  When  they 
told  me  of  it  the  little  children  were  danc- 
ing in  the  park.  She  was  like  a  little  lovely 
child  herself.  They  told  me  she  was  dead, 
but  it  is  only  at  times  that  I  am  weak 
enough  to  believe  them." 

I  gazed  at  him,  utterly  bewildered.  He 
returned  my  look  with  a  gaze  of  infinite 
despair. 

"To-morrow,"  he  said  bravely,  "I 
shall  again  know  that  she  is  alive  and 
loving  me." 

187 


Our  Square 


Later  I  learned  how  the  blow  had  fallen ; 
a  grim  and  brutal  experience  for  so  gentle 
a  spirit  as  his. 

Three  weeks  after  his  Toinette  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  Samaritan  a  forlorn-hope 
operation  was  determined  upon.  Happily, 
Orpheus  knew  nothing  about  it  until  it 
was  all  over,  with  unexpected  promise  of 
success  and  even  complete  cure.  Once  a 
week  they  let  him  see  her.  On  the  other 
six  days  he  might  call  at  the  office  for  such 
information  as  a  stolid  and  blank  official 
chose  to  dole  out.  But  no  official  could 
interpose  his  stolidity  between  Orpheus, 
piping  at  dead  of  night,  and  his  Eurydice 
lying  happily  awake  in  the  far  upper  wing 
of  the  hospital,  knowing  that  he  made  his 
music  for  her  and  perhaps  hearing  it  — 
who  knows?  —  with  the  finer  ear  of  the 
spirit.  Vary  his  choice  as  he  might,  he  told 
me,  she  always  knew  what  he  had  played 
and  could  tell  when  they  next  saw  each 
other.  So  all  went  well  with  those  two 


Orpheus 

young,  brave  hearts,  and  the  meager  re- 
ports grew  increasingly  hopeful,  until  one 
bright  spring  morning  Orpheus  paid  his 
unfailing  daily  visit  for  information.  A 
brusque  young  brute  of  an  interne  was  at 
the  desk,  the  regular  official  having  stepped 
out. 

"  Twenty-one  ? "  he  repeated  in  reply  to 
Orpheus's  gentle-voiced  question.  "  That 's 
the  heart  case.  Died  yesterday  afternoon." 

"  But  last  night  I  played  to  her/'  pro- 
tested Orpheus  in  a  piteous,  stricken  whis- 
per, "  and  she  heard  and  answered.  It  can- 
not be." 

"  Nutty  !  "  said  the  interne  to  the  infor- 
mation official  who  returned  at  this  point. 
"  Takes  'em  that  way  sometimes.  Better 
get  him  out  before  he  busts  loose." 

They  got  him  out  without  trouble.  He 
wandered  into  Our  Square  and  watched 
the  children  dancing-in  the  May.  They 
seemed  to  him  like  unreal  creatures  mov- 
ing in  a  world  of  unrealities.  More  and 
189 


Our  Square 

more  unreal  grew  everything  about  him 
until  late  that  night  he  faced  the  grim  re- 
ality of  a  barred  door  which  kept  him  from 
his  beloved  dead,  and  that  door  he  attacked 
with  such  fury  and  power  that  it  took  two 
policemen,  in  addition  to  the  hospital 
corps,  to  subdue  him.  As  he  was  a  for- 
eigner and  vague  and  sorrow-stricken,  the 
magistrate  naturally  gave  him  two  months. 
He  came  out  dazed  but  steadied.  The  one 
hold  he  had  upon  happiness  was  the  delu- 
sion to  which  he  so  pathetically  clung,  the 
pretense,  passionately  cherished,  that  she 
was  still  alive.  Poor  Orpheus  !  He  had  in- 
deed gone  down  into  Hades  for  his  Eury- 
dice  and  stayed  there.  If  he  could  find 
solace  in  his  limbo  of  minor  madness,  per- 
haps that  was  best  for  him. 

So  thought  the  Little  Red  Doctor,  wise 
in  human  suffering,  to  whom  alone  I  told 
the  story  of  Orpheus.  Said  the  Little  Red 
Doctor  first :  "  There  are  times  when  I 
blame  my  old  friend  Death  for  doing  a 
190 


Orpheus 


job  by  halves  " ;  and  second :  "  Cure  him  ? 
Who  wants  to  cure  peace  with  pain  !  Let 
him  play  his  music  "  ;  and  third :  "  God 
help  that  interne  if  I  ever  meet  up  with 
him  !  " 

If  Death  resented  his  friendly  oppo- 
nent's strictures,  he  never  showed  it,  but 
kept  on  doing  business  as  usual  in  Our 
Square.  And  Orpheus  continued  to;  make, 
among  the  broken  glens  of  our  brick-and- 
stucco  sky  line,  his  music  manifold  to  ears 
that  heard  not.  As  for  the  interne,  the 
Little  Red  Doctor  did,  in  the  fullness  of 
time,  meet  up  with  him,  and  improved 
the  occasion  to  lay  down  certain  ethics 
and  principles  of  conduct  as  pertaining  to 
the  profession  of  healing.  Whereupon  the 
interne,'  who  should  have  known  better, 
being  not  more  than  half  again  as  big  as 
the  Little  Red  Doctor,  treated  the  lesson 
in  a  light  and  flippant  vein,  and  asserted 
that  when  he  wished  to  learn  his  business 
he  would  n't  apply  to  a  half-boiled  shrimp. 
191 


Our  Square 

Thus  it  happened  that  he  who  had  come 
forth  from  the  hospital  an  interne  intact 
and  unafraid  returned  thereto  a  battered 
and  terrified  patient  with  a  broken  nose 
and  two  displaced  ribs  urgently  requiring 
attention.  The  practice  of  medicine  in 
Our  Square,  as  exemplified  by  so  thorough- 
going an  exponent  as  the  Little  Red  Doc- 
tor, is  not  wholly  a  lily-fingered  science. 

Minora  cano !  And  why  should  I  sing 
of  such  lesser  matters  as  the  correction  of 
the  interne,  when  there  awaits  my  histor- 
ical pen  a  conflict  worthy  of  Euripides's 
own  strophes !  Cyrus  the  Gaunt  and  the 
Bonnie  Lassie  had  been  serving  the  mid- 
night rarebit  to  three  of  their  uptown 
friends  who  had  dropped  down  through 
the  slums  to  the  friendly  little  old  house 
with  the  dancing  figurines  in  the  window, 
and  Cyrus  had  undertaken  to  pilot  his 
friends  to  the  corner,  lest  their  evening 
raiment  be  locally  misinterpreted  and  re- 
sented. Coming,  later  than  my  wont,  from 
192 


Orph 


the  Elite  Restaurant,  I  crossed  Our  Square 
a  few  rods  in  advance  of  them.  Orpheus 
stood  in  his  corner,  piping  to  his  lost  young 
love.  From  without  there  approached  him 
swiftly  a  dark  group,  close  gathered.  It 
was  the  Shadow  Gang,  from  Second  Ave- 
nue, bent  upon  reprisals.  There  were  eight 
or  nine  of  them,  under  the  leadership  of 
"Mixer"  Boyle,  a  local  middle-weight 
of  ill  repute.  They  closed  in  upon  the 
Greek,  and  as  I  ran,  shouting  for  Terry 
the  Cop,  I  saw  him  go  down  under  the 
pack.  More  than  music  was  in  that  soul, 
however.  If.he  was  Orpheus,  he  had  some- 
thing, too,  in  him  of  Thersites  and  Achilles 
and  Agamemnon.  Like  a  bear  struggling 
from  beneath  an  onset  of  dogs,  he  up- 
heaved his  big  shoulders.  From  behind 
me  came  an  answering  shout,  not  Terry 
the  Cop,  indeed,  but  the  next  best  thing, 
Cyrus  the  Gaunt,  followed  closely  by  the 
Rev.  Morris  Cartwright,  Gerrit  Bascom, 
and  two  other  visions  of  white  shirt  fronts 


Our  Square 


protruding  and  black  coat  tails  streaming  in 
the  wind.  They  passed  me  as  if  I  were  a 
milestone,  and  the  battle  was  joined. 

Cyrus  the  Gaunt  is  a  mighty  man  of 
his  hands.  But  the  hands  are  those  of  an 
amateur.  Mixer  Boyle's  are  those  of  a 
professional.  They  crossed,  and  Cyrus  went 
down  under  a  left  swing.  Before  the  Mixer 
could  turn  he  was  toppled  with  the  bless- 
ing (full  arm  to  the  ear)  of  the  Rev.  Mor- 
ris Cartwright.  Two  others  fell  upon  the 
Rev.  Morris  and  the  Rev.  Morris  fell  upon 
the  Mixer,  and  then  they  all  rose  and  went 
at  it  again. 

I  am  old  who  once  was  young,  but 
never  do  I  look  upon  the  stricken  field 
without  remembering  that  in  my  prime 
I  was  a  man  of  deeds  and  juggled  deftly 
with  seventy-five-pound  dumb-bells.  Tal- 
ents of  this  sort  are  never  wholly  wasted. 
Upon  attaining  the  outskirts  of  the  melee 
I  selected  the  largest  hostile  bulk  in  reach, 
seized  it  around  the  hips,  and  lifted  it 
194 


Orpheus 


dear.  It  struggled  and  developed  a  solid 
fist  which,  in  contact  with  my  jaw,  utterly 
destroyed  my  equilibrium.  I  fell,  but  con- 
trived so  to  twist  myself  that  the  hostile 
bulk  fell  beneath  me.  It  lay  quiet.  But 
when  I  strove  to  rise,  a  paralysis  across 
my  shoulders  strongly  advised  against  it. 
So  I  sat  upon  my  captive's  chest  and  diz- 
zily watched  the  combat. 

Now  do  I  fully  understand  why  war 
correspondents  are  not  permitted  at  the 
front.  It  destroys  their  special  usefulness. 
The  fighting  spirit  and  historical  accuracy 
are  totally  incompatible.  Nobody  could 
have  had  a  better  view  of  the  stirring 
events  which  succeeded  than  I.  The  forces 
and  topography  of  the  combat  were  clear 
in  my  mind :  nearly  two  to  one  in  favor 
of  the  enemy,  but  with  our  party  fighting 
on  home  soil  and  in  momentary  hope  of 
reinforcements.  Yet  all  that  I  can  recall 
is  the  sound  of  thumps  and  stifled  curses 
and  a  confused  mess  of  strained  faces,  vio- 

'95 


Our  Square 

lently  working  arms,  and  broad  white  shirt 
fronts  now  splotched  with  a  harsher  color. 
Then  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  saw  a  little 
circle  cleared  about  the  mighty  Greek, 
and  a  heavy  cane  which  he  brandished  by 
the  middle  in  both  hands  gave  me  the 
clue.  The  odds  were  balancing  better, 
though  still  with  the  invaders.  As  if  the 
Fates  themselves  were  concerned  to  assure 
a  more  even  field,  there  sounded  a  far, 
furious  whoop,  and  the  Little  Red  Doc- 
tor descended  joyously  upon  the  riot.  At 
this  critical  juncture  my  captive  came  to 
and  bit  me  in  the  leg.  I  lost  all  interest, 
temporarily,  in  the  art  and  practice  of  war 
correspondence. 

Having  secured  a  hold  (not  prescribed 
by  the  formal  rules  of  wrestling,  I  am  in- 
formed) with  my  knee  upon  my  oppo- 
nent's neck,  I  turned  to  view  the  battle 
again.  The  defenders  were  against  the 
fence  now ;  but  alas  !  the  Rev.  Morris 
Cartwright  was  on  his  hands  and  knees,  and 
196 


Orpheus 


one  of  the  other  uptown  knights  was  reel- 
ing. The  gangsters  pressed  in  hard,  striv- 
ing to  edge  around  the  Greek  and  get  him 
in  the  rear.  Cyrus,  with  his  heavy  fists, 
guarded  one  side  of  him  ;  the  Little  Red 
Doctor  was  fighting  like  a  fury  on  the 
other.  I  prayed  (kneeling"  upon  my  cap- 
tive's neck)  for  Heaven's  success  to  the 
just,  and  Terry  the  Cop. 

A  shrill  shout  marked  the  next  swift 
development. 

"  Look  out !  He  ys  got  a  knife  !  " 
A  bright  gleam  of  steel  slanted  toward 
Cyrus's  shoulder.  But  the  deft  Greek  had 
seen  it.  He  chopped  with  his  stick.  The 
knife  whirled  free  and  descended.  Like  a 
football  team  plunging  for  a  loose  ball, 
the  contestants  dived  for  it.  For  a  mo- 
ment they  groveled,  struggling.  Then  out 
of  the  mass  rose  a  shriek  of  the  uttermost 
agony.  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  group 
was  stricken  into  sudden  silence  and  im- 
mobility. Slowly  it  disintegrated,  drawing 
197 


Our  Square 

apart  in  two  sections.  A  half-doubled  fig- 
ure ran,  staggering  and  dodging,  into  the 
shadows.  A  policeman's  whistle  shrilled. 
The  gangsters  turned  and  ran.  Mine  ran 
too.  He  tried,  I  regret  to  say,  to  give  me 
a  parting  kick  as  I  let  him  up.  On  the 
ground  lay  the  knife.  There  was  just  a  lit- 
tle trickle  of  red  on  it. 

Cyrus  picked  it  up  and  looked  around. 
Every  man  of  our  party  was  battered,  but 
none  was  stabbed. 

"  Must  have  got  his  own  man  in  the 
mix-up,"  quoth  the  Little  Red  Doctor. 
"Come  to  my  place  and  get  fixed  up." 

After  much  minor  repairing  with  plas- 
ter and  patch  we  separated  upon  our  re- 
spective ways,  disheveled,  disreputable,  but 
exultant.  Orpheus,  with  his  face  one 
mass  of  cuts  and  bruises,  went  back,  if 
you  will  believe  it,  to  play  the  final 
"Boheme"  to  the  little  beam  of  light  in 
the  window. 

"I  hope,"  he  whispered  to  me,  "that 
198 


Orpheus 


she  could  not  hear  the  noise.  It  would 
frighten  her." 

In  consideration  of  my  strained  back  the 
Little  Red  Doctor  escorted  me  home.  As 
we  set  foot  to  the  steps  we  heard  a  soft 
groan  from  the  black  areaway.  From  be- 
tween two  barrels  the  physician  dragged 
a  cowering  wretch.  His  hands  were  pressed 
to  his  abdomen.  There  was  a  pool  of  blood 
where  he  had  crouched. 

"  The  Samaritan  Hospital  for  you,"  said 
the  Little  Red  Doctor. 

"  Not  me  !  "  snarled  the  youth.  "Guess 
again." 

"  Got  any  last  message  ? "  asked  the 
doctor  coolly. 

The  young  fellow's  eyelids  fluttered. 
"Am  I  croaked?"  he  said. 

"Unless  you  're  on  the  table  within  the 
hour." 

The  gangster  summoned  his  bravado, 
i'  Let  'er  go  as  she  lies.  No  Samaritan  for 
mine.  I  was  there  oncet.  They  don't  allow 
199 


Our  Square 


you  no  cigs.  'No  smoking.*  I'll  croak 
foist." 

The  Little  Red  Doctor  scratched  his 
head  in  perplexity.  I  looked  at  the  wounded 
man.  His  face  was  sullen  and  brave,  but  his 
hands  were  quivering. 

"  Take  him  up  to  my  room,  doctor,"  I 
said. 

That  is  how  I  came  by  my  first  lodger. 
His  name  was  Pinney  the  Rat. 

After  the  Little  Red  Doctor  had  saved 
his  body,  many  and  various  visitors  climbed 
my  stair  for  the  purpose  of  saving  the  Rat's 
soul.  The  Rev.  Morris  Cartwright  came 
all  the  way  downtown  (with  an  ear  taste- 
fully framed  in  surgeon's  plaster)  to  con- 
vert him  to  decency.  Cyrus  the  Gaunt 
strove  manfully  to  convert  him  to  the  gos- 
pel of  work  with  offers  of  regenerating  labor 
in  Canadian  wildernesses.  MacLachan  the 
Tailor  undertook  to  curse  him  into  so- 
briety. Our  French  David  and  our  German 
Jonathan  dropped  in  separately  to  forecast 

200 


Orpheus 


to  him  respectively  the  Entente  and  the 
Alliance  arguments  of  the  Great  War  and 
to  hint  at  enlistment  when  he  should  be 
recovered.  Herman  Groll  undertook  to 
convert  him  to  music.  All  of  this  he  ac- 
cepted with  noncommittal  and  rather  con- 
temptuous tolerance.  It  served  to  pass  the 
time  of  his  halting  recovery.  As  a  patient 
he  was  docile;  as  a  guest  he  was  not  incon- 
siderate, though  I  could  hardly  say  that  he 
was  grateful.  To  Orpheus  alone  of  his  vis- 
itors he  exhibited  a  distinctive  attitude. 
When  the  Greek  dropped  in  upon  us  Pin- 
ney's  face  became  a  mask  of  cold  watch- 
fulness. He  would  freeze  up  into  silence, 
following  the  big,  gentle  visitor's  every 
movement  with  his  unwinking  eyes.  The 
Little  Red  Doctor  noted  this  with  uneasi- 
ness. 

"That 's  not  a  rat,"  he  warned  me.  "  It 's 
a  rattlesnake.  And  I  don't  like  the  way  it 
looks  at  our  Greek  friend." 

"What  can  he  have  against  Orpheus?" 

2OI 


Our  Square 


"  Probably  thinks  it  was  he  that  knifed 
him." 

"  It  was  n't.  I  can  swear  to  that  much." 

"  Save  your  breath.  You  '11  never  argue 
the  resolve  to  get  even  out  of  the  mind  of 
a  gangster." 

"What  shall  I  do?  Tell  Orpheus  to 
keep  away  ? " 

"No.  But  see  that  our  patient  does  n't 
get  his  hands  on  any  sort  of  weapon." 

Strangely  enough,  the  wounded  man 
seemed  to  exercise  a  strange  fascination 
upon  the  Greek.  Day  after  day  he  would 
come  and  sit,  talking  or  reading,  while  the 
gangster  lay  silent,  maturing  murder  in  his 
soul.  What  a  pair  they  made;  the  secre- 
tive, time-abiding,  venomous  Rat  and  the 
gentle  madman ! 

In  time  the  Rat's  patience  was  rewarded. 
He  got  his  weapon.  He  got  it  from  the 
Bonnie  Lassie.  She  had  taken  to  dropping 
in  upon  us  to  see  my  lodger.  She,  at  least, 
did  not  try  to  convert  him.  At  first  she 

202 


Orpheus 

just  sat  and  twinkled  at  him,  and  the  man 
does  not  live  who  can  resist  the  Bonnie 
Lassie  when  she  twinkles.  On  her  second 
visit  she  brought  him  cigarettes  in  pro- 
fusion and  announced  that  she  was  going 
to  sculp  him  in  miniature,  and  proceeded 
forthwith  to  do  it.  Before  the  job  was  done 
they  were  sworn  comrades.  She  would  sit 
by  his  couch  with  her  modeling  tools  and 
clay  and  work  while  he  boasted  in  a  hoarse, 
thin  pipe  of  the  evil  things  he  had  done. 
He  was  openly  flattered  that  she  should 
make  him  the  chief  figure  of  a  group  to  be 
called  "Ambush."  One  day  while  she  was 
absorbed  in  a  difficult  line  he  quietly  an- 
nexed her  compasses.  A  pair  of  compasses 
is  two  excellent  stilettos.  Pinney  the  Rat 
secreted  his  booty  in  the  bed.  That  eve- 
ning I  found  him  cautiously  practicing, 
first  with  his  right,  then  with  his  left 
hand,  what  I  supposed  to  be  that  method 
pugilistically  termed  an  uppercut.  Had 
I  been  more  expert,  I  might  have  noted 
203 


Our  Square 


that  his  thumb  was  turned  sidewise  and 
upward. 

Concern  and  ignorance  were  choicely 
blended  in  the  Rat's  manner  when,  next 
day,  the  Bonnie  Lassie  came  in  to  inquire 
for  her  lost  tool,  bringing  as  usual  some 
"smokes.'* 

"Do  you  like  this  kind  better?"  she 
asked. 

"  They  're  all  right,"  said  the  Rat.  "  But, 
say,  lady,  not  wishin'  to  ast  too  much  —  " 

"Go  on,"  she  encouraged  him  as  he 
paused. 

"Woddya  know,"  pursued  the  patient 
hesitantly,  "  about  a  big,  fat  cig  with  funny 
letters  like  this  on?" 

"Those  look  like  Greek  letters,"  said 
the  Bonnie  Lassie,  studying  the  marks 
which  he  had  scrawled.  "  I  '11  see  if  I  can 
get  some  for  you." 

Search  for  that  brand  proved  unavailing, 
however.  It  seemed  to  be  a  special  impor- 
tation. 

204 


Orpheus 

"Where  did  you  ever  smoke  them?" 
she  asked  the  Rat. 

"  Over  to  th'  S'maritan." 

"  Do  they  serve  cigarettes  in  the  hos- 
pital?" 

"They  do  —  I  don't  think!  It  was  a 
little  lady  there  give  'em  to  me  on  the 
quiet.  She  seen  what  them  big  stiffs  o' 
doctors  never  seen,  that  I  was  goin'  batty 
for  a  smoke.  She  sneaked  'em  in  to  me. 
She  was  one  real  baby !  Some  guy  outside 
useter  send  'em  in  to  her  to  give  me." 

"Was  she  a  nurse?" 

"  No ;  a  case.  Pretty  near  all  in  when 
she  came.  After  she  got  well  nobody 
wanted  her  to  leave;  and  she  didn't  want 
to,  I  guess.  So  they  made  a  job  for  her. 
I  useter  tell  her  she  was  hired  out  for 
sunshine.  I  ain't  seen  her  since."  He 
sighed. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  her?" 

Pinney  the  Rat's  eyes  became  human. 
"  Oh,  Gee !  "  he  murmured. 
205 


Our  Square 

"  I  '11  bring  her,"  said  the  Bonnie  Las- 
sie. "  Whom  shall  I  ask  for  ?  " 

"  Jus'  leave  word  for  Miss  Tony  that 
Pin  —  that  No.  7,  Men's  Surgical  —  is 
hurted  again,  but  O.  K.,  and  could  she 
come  and  see  him,  maybe,  some  day." 

She  came  at  once,  Pinney  the  Rat's 
Miss  Tony.  She  was  little  and  quick  and 
brown  and  lovely,  but  not  laughing.  There 
was  a  depth  of  woe  and  loss  in  her  big 
eyes.  Let  that  be  my  excuse  that  I  did 
not  at  once  identify  her  as  Eurydice  — 
that  and  the  fact  that,  as  far  as  I  knew, 
Eurydice  was  dead  and  buried  these  four 
months  and  lived  only  in  Orpheus's  reso- 
lutely self-deluded  mind. 

For  Pinney's  sake,  his  visitor  summoned 
up  the  phantom  of  past  gayety.  She  shook, 
first  her  finger  and  then  her  little  fist  at 
him,  upbraiding  him  in  quaintly  accented 
English,  while  he  lay  and  visibly  wor- 
shiped. 

"  You  haf  sayed  that  you  will  go  straight. 
206 


Orpheus 


An'  now  voila  you,  wit'  your  pro-mess 
broke  an'  a  stick  in  your  estomac." 

"  Yessum,"  said  Pinney  the  Rat. 

"  That  learn  you  something  ?  That 
learn  you  to  be'ayve?" 

"  Yessum,"  assented  that  murderous 
gangster  like  an  abashed  schoolboy. 

"  You  give  me  your  han'  now  that  you 
be  a  good  boy  an'  go  no  more  wit'  les 
Apaches  an'  get  you  a  job  ?  " 

The  Rat's  face  hardened.  He  squirmed 
away  from  those  clear  eyes.  "  I  got  one 
little  account  to  square  up,"  he  muttered. 
"  After  that  if  I  make  my  getaway,  I  '11 
join  the  Salvationists  if  you  tell  me  to. 
An'  say,  Miss  Tony,  you  know  them  cigs 
you  useta  gimme  ?  Them  with  the  dinky 
letters  on  ?  " 

The  girl's  trembling  hand  went  to  her 
throat.  She  looked  at  him  strangely. 

"  If  I  could  get  a  handful  o'  them,"  he 
continued  shyly,  "  they  —  I  —  it  'd  kinda 
remind  me  when  —  when  you  ain't  here. 
207 


Our  Square 

How's  me  unknown  friend  on  the  out- 
side that  useta  send  'em  in?" 

Miss  Tony  leaned  her  head  against  the 
wall  and  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears.  I 
led  her  out,  still  sobbing,  while  the  ex- 
Men's  Surgical  No.  7  sat  up  in  his  bed 
and  cursed  himself  with  wild,  blasphe- 
mous, wondering  oaths. 

Whatever  surmise  our  young  gangster 
may  have  entertained  he  kept  to  himself. 
And,  on  the  following  morning,  sterner 
matters  claimed  his  attention,  for,  while 
I  was  out,  Orpheus,  the  Greek,  dropped 
in,  and  Pinney,  once  more  the  Rat,  saw 
the  hour  of  his  revenge  upon  his  supposed 
assailant  at  hand.  For  the  Greek,  forget- 
ful of  caution,  had  seated  himself  well 
within  arm's  length  of  the  patient's  couch. 
Beneath  the  sheet  the  Rat  clutched  the 
needle -pointed  compasses  and  waited. 
Should  he  risk  the  jump  and  the  stroke? 
No  !  He  might  miss.  And  he  knew,  from 
the  memory  of  the  Battle  of  Our  Square, 
208 


Orpheus 


the  Greek's  swiftness  of  eye  and  hand.  He 
must  get  him  nearer.  It  was  a  time  for 
strategy. 

"  Hey,  sport.    Got  a  smoke  on  you  ?" 

Orpheus  drew  a  box  from  his  pocket, 
extracted  a  fattish  cylinder,  and  leaned 
forward  to  the  other  —  not  quite  far 
enough.  "  Gimme  a  light,  will  ye  ? " 
piped  the  Rat  hoarsely,  taking  the  cigar- 
ette in  his  left  hand. 

His  right  was  working,  wriggling  slowly, 
slowly  out  from  beneath  the  sheet.  Or- 
pheus struck  a  match  and  leaned  toward 
the  bed.  His  heart  was  almost  over  the 
lurking  point.  Slowly  advancing  the  tip 
for  the  flame,  Pinney  the  Rat  —  now  the 
Rattlesnake  with  death  in  his  stroke  — 
raised  his  arm  to  blind  his  victim's  vision 
against  the  blow.  The  movement  brought 
the  flimsy-papered  cylinder  directly  before 
his  own  eyes.  Familiar  characters  leaped 
out  at  him  from  the  paper. 

"  Gawd  !  "  croaked  Pinney  the  Rat. 
209 


Our  Square 

Though  it  had  the  sound  of  an  oath,  it 
was  perhaps  as  near  a  prayer  as  the  gang- 
ster had  ever  uttered.  His  frame,  tense  as 
a  spring,  slumped  back  among  the  covers. 
Orpheus  dropped  the  match.  "What  is  it?" 
he  cried  with  quick  concern.  "You  suffer?" 

"  Where  didje  get  that  cig  ?" 

"The  cigarette  ?  From  Greece.  I  al- 
ways smoke  this  kind." 

"Have  ye  —  didje  ever  send  'em  to  a 
little  lady  in  the  S'maritan  Hospital  fer  a 
—  a  guy  she  was  good  to?" 

"  Yes."  The  Greek's  eyes  widened.  He 
began  to  shake  through  all  his  frame. 
"  My  God  !  You  knew  her  ? " 

"Did  I  know  her?"  The  Rat  turned 
away  and  closed  his  eyes.  His  right  hand 
moved  furtively  under  the  bed  clothing, 
away  from  his  body.  Something  fell,  with 
a  soft  clink  between  the  bed  and  the  wall. 
The  Rat  shuddered  and  sighed  like  a  man 
freed  from  a  great  peril.  y  Go  on.  Spiel," 
he  bade  Orpheus. 

210 


Orpheus 


"Spiel  ?  "  queried  the  trembling  Greek. 

"Spill  your  talk.    Tell  me  about  her." 

Orpheus  opened  his  heart  and  spoke. 
To  that  silent  listener  (for  Pinney  the  Rat 
uttered  no  word)  he  poured  forth  his  love 
and  longing  and  his  delusion,  speaking  of 
the  girl  as  if  she  still  lived.  One  word  from 
Pinney  might  have  brought  the  climax, 
perhaps  disastrously,  for  that  mind,  desper- 
ately clinging  to  its  delusion,  might  have 
collapsed  under  too  sudden  a  shock  of  real- 
ity. The  Rat  lay  quiet,  drinking  it  in  and 
revolving  tangled  problems.  There  were 
strange  echoes  in  the  Greek's  talk  which 
he  failed  to  understand. 

As  I  came  in  I  met,  on  the  stairs,  Or- 
pheus going  out.  His  face  was  alight  with 
a  strange  radiance. 

"That  Mr.  Pinney  knows  her,"  he 
said.  "  He  knows  my  Toinette.  She  was 
once  good  to  him."  Then,  in  a  confiden- 
tial and  triumphant  whisper :  "  So  she  lives 
in  another  heart  beside  my  own."  It  was 
211 


Our  Square 


as  if  his  delusion,  his  creed,  his  religion 
of  love  that  was  stronger  than  death,  had 
been  blessed  with  convincing  proof. 

Wondering  greatly,  I  returned  to  my 
patient.  He  was  lost  in  thought  and  greeted 
me  only  with  an  absent  nod.  Not  until  I 
started  the  tea  for  our  luncheon  did  he  speak. 

"  Say,  boss,  about  that  big  wop." 

"Well?" 

"  He  's  a  good  guy,  ain't  he  ? " 

"  He  is." 

"But — say.  A  little  bit  on  the  slant 
here?"  He  knuckled  his  head.  "Huh?" 

"  Perhaps.  What  have  you  been  say- 
ing to  him? " 

"  Nothin'.  I  been  listenin'.  A  great  line 
of  talk  about  the  little  lady.  But  —  say, 
boss.  What 's  his  kink  ?" 

"  Could  n't  you  tell  ? " 

"  Sometimes  I  thought  I  got  him,"  said 
the  Rat  reflectively.    "And  sometimes  I 
don't  get  him  at  all.   Seems  like  he  speaks 
of  her  like  she  was  a  dead  person." 
212 


Orpheus 


"Well,  she  is." 

The  Rat's  jaw  dropped.  "Who  is?" 

"  Orpheus's  —  the  wop,  as  you  call  him 
—  the  woman  he  loved." 

"  Are  you  nutty,  too  ?  Was  n't  she  in 
here  to  see  me  only  yesterday?" 

Light  broke  in  upon  me  in  a  great  wave. 
"  Merciful  powers !  "  I  shouted.  "  Tour 
Miss  Tony  —  his  Toinette?  It  can't  be. 
She  died  in  a  hospital  the  day  before  May 
Day." 

"  Ferget  it !  She  moved  out  cured  a  week 
before  May  Day.  Don't  I  know?  Didn't 
I  go  humping  up  to  Room  21  to  see  her, 
and  find  an  old  hen  with  a  face  like  a  mus- 
tard plaster  and  a  busted  mainspring?" 

The  number  woke  remembrance  within 
me.  "  What  became  of  the  woman  in  2 1  ? " 

"  Croaked  a  few  days  later." 

Then  the  whole  tragic  comedy  of  errors 
was  made  plain  to  me.  In  turn  I  made  it 
clear  to  my  lodger. 

"Who's  loony  now?"  he  demanded 
213 


Our  Square 


triumphantly.  "  You  chase  out  an'  find 
the  wop  an'  let's  square  this." 

All  very  simple,  but  there  was  the 
matter  of  Orpheus's  mental  condition  to 
be  considered.  What  would  be  the  out- 
come of  so  violent  a  confirmation  of  his 
delusion?  Or  was  it  a  delusion,  since  it 
was  a  fact  ?  Neither  the  Rat  nor  I  could 
lay  any  claim  to  be  metaphysicians.  Ob- 
viously this  was  a  case  for  the  Little  Red 
Doctor,  together  with  such  consultants  as 
he  might  care  to  call  in. 

At  the  summons  of  its  official  physician 
Our  Square  mustered  its  intellectual  forces 
in  the  Bonnie  Lassie's  Studio  and  sat  in  sol- 
emn conclave  upon  the  problem.  First  of 
all  we  sent  for  the  Rat's  Miss  Tony,  and 
what  the  Bonnie  Lassie  said  to  her  in  the 
little  back  room  and  what  she  said  to  the 
Bonnie  Lassie  is  a  secret  of  womankind. 
Not  even  Cyrus  the  Gaunt  was  told.  All 
that  we  heard  of  it  was  a  cry  and  a  sound 
of  happy  sobbing  and  another  sound  of  bro- 
214 


Orpheus 


ken  laughter;  and  then  the  little,  quick, 
brown,  lovely  face  was  turned  to  us  from 
the  steps  outside,  and  MacLachan  observed 
that  two  Bonnie  Lassies  in  one  house  was 
a  strain  on  human  credulity  as  well  as  on 
human  eyesight,  and  the  Bonnie  Lassie 
returned  to  us  with  her  eyesight  looking  a 
trifle  strained. 

"  Somebody  at  the  Greek  consulate," 
said  she,  "  told  her  that  Mister  Phil-il-op 
—  Mr.  Orpheopoulos  had  gone  back  to 
Greece,  and  she  's  been  breaking  her  poor 
dear  little  heart  over  it.  Men  are  all  im- 
beciles." 

"  Thanking  you  in  behalf  of  one  and 
all,"  returned  Cyrus  the  Gaunt,  "will 
the  volcano  of  wisdom  whom  I  have  the 
felicity  of  calling  wife  tell  us  who  is  to 
break  it  to  Orpheus  ?" 

"  Pinney  the  Rat." 

Several  protests  were  promptly  entered. 
"  That  roughneck  ? "  said  MacLachan, 
whose  urgency  in  the  cause  of  abstinence 
215 


Our  Square 


had  not  been  well  received.  "  Take  thought 
of  the  effect  on  the  poor,  stray-witted 
Greek  lad." 

"  I  'm  not  thinking  of  the  effect  upon 
him  at  all,"  said  the  Bonnie  Lassie.  "  I  'm 
thinking  of  the  effect  upon  Pinney." 

"Think  aloud,"  invited  the  Little  Red 
Doctor.  "What  beneficial  effect  will  the 
reunion  of  two  loving  hearts  have  upon 
an  incised  stab  wound  in  a  third  party's 
abdomen  ? " 

"  Is  n't  this  wound  healed  ?" 

"  Practically." 

"  Did  you  ever  know  any  person  to  go 
crazy  or  get  crazier  from  joy?" 

"  No." 

"  There  are  your  two  patients  disposed 
of,  on  -the  medical  side.  What  I  am  at- 
tempting is  an  experiment  in  psychology. 
You  've  all  had  your  chance  at  saving  the 
Rat's  soul.  I  '11  have  mine." 

She  perched  herself  upon  a  modeling 
stool  and  expounded.  The  Rat,  she  ex- 
216 


Orph 


eus 

plained,  had  never  had  an  opportunity  to 
do  anything  but  harm  in  his  life.  There- 
fore he  did  harm  with  pride,  because  it 
was  doing  something.  "  He  's  like  all  of 
us  ;  he  wants  to  work  to  some  effect.  Give 
him  a  chance  to  make  himself  effective  for 
good,  and  you  may  see  a  change." 

Upon  which  theory  of  vice  and  virtue 
the  Little  Red  Doctor  commented:  — 

"  Sometimes  the  Bonnie  Lassie  thinks 
around  queer  corners  with  her  mind,  but 
she  's  got  the  wisest  heart  in  Our  Square." 

So  Pinney  the  Rat  got  his  instructions 
and  reluctant  leave  from  his  doctor  to  in- 
dulge in  a  brief  midnight  stroll  that  very 
night. 

Our  Square  was  haunted  that  midnight 
by  uneasy  figures  slinking  about  in  shad- 
owy backgrounds.  One  by  one  Terry  the 
Cop  trailed  them  down  only  to  be  discom- 
fited by  successive  discoveries  of  his  own 
particular  friends.  The  one  logical  object 
of  suspicion,  Pinney  the  Rat,  sat  openly 
217 


Our  Square 


on  a  bench  and  smoked  and  waited  for 
Orpheus  to  finish  his  music.  When  it  was 
over,  the  little  guttersnipe  went  to  meet 
the  big  Olympian.  Carefully  indeed  had 
we  rehearsed  the  Rat  in  a  modulated 
method  of  breaking  the  news.  But  the 
gangster  was  an  undisciplined  soul  and  a 
direct.  At  the  crisis  he  reverted  to  his  own 
way,  which  perhaps  was  best.  He  put  a 
hand  on  Orpheus's  shoulder. 

"Say,  bo',"  he  said,  "yer  in  wrong 
about  the  lady." 

The  Greek's  face  quivered,  in  anticipa- 
tion of  another  blow  at  the  fabric  of  his 
precious  dream.  "  I  know,"  he  said. 

"  No,  yeh  don't  know.  She  did  n't 
croak.  She's  alive." 

Orpheus's  hands  went  to  his  temples. 

"  She 's  alive  and  waiting  for  you  in  the 
dominie's  hallway.  Come  wit' me.  Ready? 
Hep!" 

Then  Cyrus  the  Gaunt,  Terry  the  Cop, 
and  I  had  to  fall  on  the  Little  Red  Doc- 
218 


Orpheus 

tor  and  pin  him  to  a  bench  to  keep  him 
from  ruining  it  all,  for  the  great  bulk  of 
the  Greek  loosened  in  every  fibre  and  he 
collapsed  into  the  clutch  of  the  fragile 
Rat  in  a  manner  calculated  (so  the  mad- 
dened physician  informed  us  in  technical 
and  violent  terms)  to  rip  every  condemned 
stitch  out  of  the  latter's  foreordained  peri- 
toneum. Presumably,  however,  the  Little 
Red  Doctor  had  stitched  better  than  he 
knew.  For  Pinney  straightened  the  big 
man  up  and  marched  him  across  the  way. 
As  the  strange  pair  mounted  the  steps  the 
vestibule  door  opened.  A  little,  quick  fig- 
ure sped  to  meet  them.  We  heard  across 
the  leafage  of  Our  Square  the  cry  of  a  man 
who  has  come  back  to  life  and  of  a  woman 
who  has  come  back  to  love.  When  my 
eyes,  which  are  growing  old  and  play  me 
strange  tricks,  had  cleared,  the  doors  were 
closed  and  Pinney  the  Rat  was  playing 
watchdog  on  the  steps,  jealously  guarding 
that  sacred  vestibule. 
219 


Our  Square 


Oh,  the  vestibules  of  Our  Square  !  What 
Arcadia  has  fostered  a  thousandth  part  of 
their  romance !  Between  those  narrow- 
walls,  behind  those  ill-guarded  doors,  in 
that  pathetic  travesty  of  solitude  which  is 
all  that  our  teeming  hive  affords,  what 
heights  and  depths  of  love  and  anguish, 
what  hope  and  despair,  what  triumphs, 
what  abnegations,  what  partings,  what 
"  infinite  passion  and  the  pain  of  finite 
hearts  that  yearn,"  pass,  and  are  forgotten  ! 
When  the  blight  of  ages  shall  lie  heavy 
and  dusty  over  a  forgotten  metropolis, 
when  the  last  human  habitation  totters  to 
its  fall  in  some  far  future  cataclysm,  two 
lovers  shall  stand  clasped  in  its  vestibule 
forgetful  of  ruin,  of  death,  of  all  but  each 
other.  Oh,  for  the  pen  of  Euripides  to 
celebrate  fittingly  those  narrow  and  en- 
chanted spaces  !  Or  the  pipe  of  my  friend 
Orpheus  to  turn  their  echoes  into  golden 
music ! 

They  came  out,  those  two,  arm  enlaced 
220 


Orpheus 


in  arm,  with  the  glory  on  their  faces,  into 
a  world  that  was  theirs  alone  for  the  time. 
They  vanished  into  the  shadows,  and  the 
watcher  on  the  step  lifted  his  head  and 
saw  them  go.  But  the  face  of  Pinney  was 
no  longer  the  face  of  the  Rat. 

He  rose  and  slouched  down  the  steps. 
We  went  forward  to  meet  him. 

"  I  wanta  drink,"  he  muttered. 

The  Bonnie  Lassie  put  her  hand  out  to 
him.  "  No,  you  do  not,"  said  she. 

"  No,  I  do  not,"  said  Pinney.  He  turned 
to  Cyrus  the  Gaunt. 

"When  do  I  git  that  job?"  he  asked. 


"Tazmun" 

A  Tale  of  White  Magic  in  Our 
Square 

QTRANGERS  in  Our  Square  stop  and 
k_?  stare  at  No.  17.  In  itself  the  house  is 
unremarkable;  a  dull,  brown  rectangle 
with  a  faintly  mildewed  air  about  the 
cornices.  It  is  this  sign  on  the  front 
which  attracts  the  startled  notice  of  the 
wayfarer :  — 

THE  ANGEL  OF  DEATH 
One  Flight  Up  and  Ring  Bell 

To  us  of  the  Square  the  placard  is  a 
commonplace,  and  the  Angel  of  Death 
just  Boggs,  a  chunky,  bristly  little  man 
with  gold  teeth  and  a  weak,  meek,  peanut- 
whistle  voice,  who  conducts  not  a  private 
bomb  factory  or  a  suicide  club,  as  unin- 

222 


Taxman 

formed  romantics  hopefully  surmise  upon 
a  first  reading,  but  a  worthy  though  hum- 
ble enterprise  of  hygiene  and  cleanliness 
more  specifically  set  forth  in  the  legend 
running,  crimson,  across  the  top  of  his 
business  card :  — 

BOGGS  KILLS  BUGS 

Once  in  the  long  ago  that  explicit  an- 
nouncement had  flamed  upon  the  house 
front.  It  yielded  to  the  more  dignified 
form  when  Madam  Tallafferr  took  Mr. 
Boggs's  top  floor.  She  said  that  it  was  ob- 
jectionable and  that  she  could  not  live  over 
it,  and  the  landlord,  duly  impressed,  sac- 
rificed his  prized  alliteration  rather  than 
lose  a  lodger  so  elegant  and  aristocratic. 
Mr.  Boggs  had  a  vast,  albeit  distant,  rev- 
erence for  aristocracy,  and  he  recognized 
in  Madam  TallafFerr  a  true  exponent.  So 
the  sign  came  down  and  she  went  up. 
With  her  went  her  furniture,  scanty  but 
magnificent,  a  silver-inlaid  lock  box  lo- 
223 


Our  Square 


cally  credited  with  safeguarding  the  Pem- 
berton  family  diamonds,  Sempronius,  who 
was  fat  and  black  and  a  cat,  and  Old 
Sally,  who  was  fat  and  black  and  a  thief. 
For  five  years  Madam  Tallafferr  dwelt 
above  the  lethal  Boggs,  and  at  the  end  of 
that  period  Our  Square  knew  hardly  more 
of  her  than  on  the  day  of  her  arrival.  She 
was  polite,  but  resolutely  aloof  as  befitted 
her  station  in  life. 

For  Mr.  Boggs's  lodger  was  all  that  is 
most  glorious  in  Southern  lineage.  Her 
full  style  and  title  was  Madam  Rachel 
Pinckney  Pemberton  Tallafferr,  with  two 
Is,  two  fs,  and  two  rs,  if  you  valued  her 
favor.  She  was  passionately  devoted  to  the 
Lost  Cause,  and  belonged  to  no  less  than 
seven  "Daughters-of  "  organizations  with 
sumptuous  stationery.  Mr.  Boggs  was  very 
proud  of  her  mail.  He  said  she  had  the 
swellest  correspondence  in  Our  Square. 
When  letters  arrived  bearing  her  name 
without  the  requisite  double  Is,  fs,  and  rs, 
224 


T'azmun 

they  were  invariably  returned  to  the  post- 
man indorsed  in  a  firm,  fine  hand:  "No 
such  individual  known  here."  But  if  the 
letters  appeared  important,  the  kindly  and 
•admiring  Angel  of  Death  used  to  intercept 
them  and  supply  the  missing  consonants 
from  his  own  inkwell.  In  this  way  he  ac- 
cumulated considerable  information,  and 
was  able  to  apprise  Our  Square  that  his 
lodger  was  superstitious,  subscribed  to  a 
dream  magazine,  and  belonged  to  a  Spirit 
Guidance  Group.  He  darkly  suspected  the 
spirits  of  giving  her  bad  advice  about  in- 
vestments. 

In  person  Madam  TallafFerr  was  spare, 
tall,  and  straight.  Her  age  when  she  first 
came  to  us  was,  to  borrow  caution  from 
the  war-zone  censorship,  "somewhere  in 
the  sixties,"  though  to  Old  Sally  she  was 
still  "my  young  mist'ess."  Age  had  sharp- 
ened her  personality,  like  her  features,  to 
a  fine  point.  She  was,  I  think,  the  most 
serene,  incisive,  and  authoritative  person  I 
225 


Our  Square 

have  ever  encountered.  Her  speech  was 
precise  and  trenchant.  She  dressed  always 
in  elegant,  rustling  black.  Mr.  Boggs  said 
that  she  walked  like  a  duchess.  Quite 
likely.  Though  where  Mr.  Boggs  got  his 
data,  I  don't  know.  Our  Square  is  not  ex- 
tensively haunted  by  persons  of  ducal  rank. 
However,  she  became  known  to  the  lo- 
cality, behind  her  back,  as  the  Duchess. 
She  and  Old  Sally  were  supposed  to  live 
in  sumptuous  luxury  above  the  sign  of  the 
Destroyer.  They  had  come  to  Our  Square 
for  their  sojourn  because,  generations  be- 
fore in  the  days  of  its  glory,  madam's  ma- 
ternal grandfather  had  visited  a  distant 
cousin  in  that  same  No.  1 7.  From  beneath 
the  ominous  signboard  she  made  occa- 
sional excursions,  going  westward  and  up- 
town, sometimes  actually  in  an  automobile, 
and  always  escorted  by  Old  Sally.  It  was 
understood  (from  the  boastful  Mr.  Boggs) 
that  on  such  occasions  his  lodger  was  going 
into  Society. 

226 


Tazmun 

Once,  that  Our  Square  knew  of,  she  put 
her  ante-bellum  principles  into  practice. 
She  undertook  disciplinary  measures  upon 
Old  Sally,  who  in  a  moment  of  exaltation 
had  been  bragging  indiscreetly  of  past 
glories  "  back  in  Fuhginia."  With  a  light 
but  serviceable  cane  she  corrected  that  in- 
discretion. Yes,  in  this  emancipated  twen- 
tieth century,  among  the  populous,  crowded 
habitations  of  our  little  metropolitan  com- 
munity, within  earshot  of  Terry  the  Cop, 
the  conscientious  and  logical  slave-owner 
committed  the  startling  anachronism  of 
beating  her  slave.  Hearing  the  resultant 
groans,  Mr.  Boggs,  the  lethal,  rushed  up  to 
his  top  floor  in  great  perturbation  of  spirit 
and  burst  in  upon  the  finale  of  the  per- 
formance. From  what  he  could  observe 
the  castigation  was  purely  formal  and  in- 
nocuous and  the  outcries  merely  a  conces- 
sion to  what  was  expected  and  proper  in 
the  circumstances.  But  when  he  made  his 
presence  known,  the  Duchess  in  few  cold 
227 


Our  Square 

and  measured  terms  explained  to  him  his 
exact  purport  and  significance  in  the  cos- 
mic scheme,  which  he  promptly  perceived 
to  be  an  approximate  zero.  "  She  wizened 
me  up,"  said  the  Angel  of  Death,  "like  a 
last  season's  roach." 

One  after  another  she  wizened  us  all  up 
sufficiently  to  convince  Our  Square  that 
she  desired  no  personal  share  in  its  loosely 
communal,  kindly,  and  village-like  life. 

But  though  aloof  she  was  not  alien.  As 
befitted  her  name  and  station,  she  could 
in  time  of  need  descend  from  her  remote 
Olympus  above  the  insecticidal  Mr.  Boggs 
and  lend  a  hand.  The  first  occasion  was 
when  a  sudden  and  disastrous  spring  epi- 
demic of  that  Herod  of  diseases,  diphthe- 
ria, swept  down  upon  Our  Square,  bring- 
ing panic  in  its  train,  an  insane  and  bestial 
panic  which  barred  doors  against  the  au- 
thorities, against  help,  against  medicine, 
against  even  our  fiery  and  beloved  Little 
Red  Doctor,  who  stands  like  a  bulwark 
228 


azmun 


between  us  and  death  and  the  fear  of  death. 
Then  the  Duchess  appeared.  She  con- 
sulted briefly  with  the  Little  Red  Doctor. 
She  put  on  the  black  silk  of  splendor,  the 
Pinckney  laces  and  the  Pemberton  dia- 
monds, and  thus  girded  for  the  fray  went 
forth,  a  spare,  thin-lipped,  female  St. 
George,  against  our  local  dragon.  Wher- 
ever that  sane  and  confident  presence  ap- 
peared, panic  gave  way  to  reason  and  mu- 
tiny to  obedience.  There  were  no  heroics. 
She  nursed  no  dying  children,  saved  no 
sudden  emergency.  She  simply  restored 
and  enforced  courage  through  the  author- 
ity of  a  valiant  and  assured  personality. 
Just  before  the  Little  Red  Doctor  col- 
lapsed, at  the  close  of  the  crisis,  he  deliv- 
ered his  estimate  of  her. 

"  Cold  nerve  and  tradition.  Our  Square 
ought  to  put  up  a  statue  to  her — in  steel." 

Against  which  may  be  set  off  the  Duch- 
ess's complacent  and  bland   summing  up 
of  the  Little  Red  Doctor :  — 
229 


Our  Square 

"  He  seems  a  worthy  young  man.'* 

In  retort,  Mr.  Boggs,  for  once  forget- 
ting his  reverential  attitude,  indignantly 
piped:  "God  give  you  understanding!" 

The  Duchess  merely  lifted  her  eye- 
brows fractionally.  Being  a  Pemberton 
by  birth  and  a  Tallafferr  by  name,  she 
perceived  no  necessity  of  understanding 
lesser  forms  of  life. 

Yet  she  possessed  understanding,  too, 
and  of  a  subtle,  fine,  and  profound  kind. 
Otherwise  she  could  never  have  done  for 
Schepstein  what  she  did  when  Schep- 
stein's  twenty-year-old  Metta  killed  her- 
self through  taking  poison  tablets  (by 
mistake  of  course,  as  the  Little  Red  Doc- 
tor perjuriously  certified).  In  his  hour  of 
lonely  grief  and  shame,  Our  Square  turned 
its  back  upon  the  little  cross-eyed,  cross- 
grained,  agnostic  trafficker  in  old  debts,  old 
furniture,  old  books,  old  stamps,  old  silver, 
and  anything  else  old  which  he  could  buy 
from  the  uninformed  and  sell  to  the  covet- 
230 


azmun 


ous;  not  because  he  had  at  one  time  or  an- 
other got  the  better  of  most  of  us  in  some 
deal  and  was  the  best-hated  habitant  within 
the  four  inclosing  streets,  but  because  we 
did  not  know  what  to  do  for  him  and 
feared  his  savage  and  cynical  rebuffs.  But 
when  the  furtive  hearse  and  the  one  car- 
riage for  Schepstein,  which  was  to  have 
been  the  whole  of  little  Metta's  funeral, 
drew  up  at  night  before  the  Schepstein  flat, 
Madam  Rachel  Pinckney  Pemberton  Tal- 
lafferr  descended  her  steps,  and  crossed  Our 
Square,  rustling  and  in  the  high  estate  of 
black  silk  and  lace.  She  must  have  been 
watching.  Behind  her  waddled  Old  Sally 
with  an  armful  of  white  roses.  They  met 
Schepstein  at  the  foot  of  his  steps,  follow- 
ing his  dead.  As  the  casket  passed  her, 
Madame  Tallafferr  took  the  wealth  of 
bloom  from  the  servant  and  scattered  its 
snowy  purity  above  the  girl.  At  that  the 
face  of  Schepstein,  which  had  been  cold 
lead-gray,  changed  and  flushed  and  soft- 
231 


Our  Square 

ened,  and  he  staggered  suddenly  where  he 
stood  and  might  have  fallen  had  not  that 
strong  old  woman  thrust  an  arm  under  his 
to  help  him  on  his  way;  So  two  mourners 
went  in  the  lone  carriage  to  little  Metta's 
funeral. 

Only  long  afterward  was  this  known  to 
Our  Square.  What  established  the  Duchess 
as  a  local  heroine  and  an  Olympian  con- 
troller of  destinies  was  her  handling  of 
MacLachan  the  Tailor.  MacLachan,  on 
his  black,  alcoholic  days,  was  wont  to  sing 
"The  Cork  Leg"  under  circumstances 
which  I  have  set  forth  elsewhere.  On  this 
occasion  he  sang  it,  sitting  on  the  coping 
of  the  fountain  with  his  legs  in  the  water, 
and  beating  time  with  a  revolver  which 
might  or  might  not  have  been  loaded.  No- 
body knew  at  the  time.  Regarding  Mac- 
Lachan there  was  no  such  room  for  doubt. 
Between  stanzas  he  would  announce  his 
purpose  of  presently  ending  all  his  troubles 
with  a  bullet,  previous  to  which,  candidates 
232 


Tazmun 

for  coffins  would  be  considered  in  the  order 
of  their  applications.  In  the  natural  logic 
of  events  this  was  a  case  for  Terry  the  Cop, 
but  Polyglot  Elsa  of  the  Elite  Restaurant 
had  early  observed  MacLachan's  ready 
weapon,  and  with  more  cunning  than  con- 
science had  dispatched  the  intrepid  Terry 
to  the  farther  end  of  the  beat  upon  a  purely 
fictitious  Italian  riot.  For  reasons  of  her 
own  she  did  not  wish  Terry  punctured. 
Hence  Our  Square,  deprived  of  the  of- 
ficial protection  to  which  we  were  entitled, 
lurked  about  in  the  night  shadows,  watch- 
ing the  balladist  from  a  respectful  distance 
and  wondering  what  would  come  next. 

The  Duchess  came  next.  She  rustled 
stiffly  up  to  the  fountain  and  bade  Mac- 
Lachan  hold  his  peace.  Old  Sally  followed 
with  a  market  basket.  MacLachan  elevated 
his  voice  a  pitch. 

"  Horror  and  fright  were  in  his  face. 
The  neighbors  thought  he  was  running  a  race; 
He  clung  to  a  lamp-post  to  stay  his  pace, 
But  the  leg  broke  away  and  kept  up  the  chase," 

233 


Our  Square 


bellowed  MacLachan.  "I  am  not  aweer," 
he  added,  still  rhythmic,  though  with  a 
change  of  meter,  "  that  now  and  here,  you 
possess  any  legal  authority  in  this  Squeer  !  " 

The  Duchess  pointed  a  stiletto-like  fin- 
ger at  MacLachan.  "You  are  a  rum- wast- 
rel," she  pronounced  severely. 

MacLachan  pointed  his  revolver  at  the 
Duchess,  though  rather  waveringly.  "  I 
am,"  said  he,  "  and  proud  of  it." 

"  You  will  do  some  harm  with  that  fire- 
arm." 

"  I  will,"  said  MacLachan,  "  and  glad 
to  do  it." 

"  Go  home  to  your  bed  and  pray,"  or- 
dered the  stiff  old  lady  contemptuously. 

MacLachan  regarded  her  gravely.  "  Fly, 
witch,"  he  said.  "Awa*  wi*  ye  on  yer 
broomstick.  I  have  a  silver  bullet  for  yer 
life." 

"  Give  me  that  pistol,"  she  directed 
and  stretched  out  a  hand  for  it. 

Quietly  but   firmly    MacLachan    shot 

234 


Tazmun 

her.  At  the  same  moment  Old  Sally  hit 
him  expertly  on  the  head  with  a  bottle 
which  she  took  from  her  market  basket. 
MacLachan  slumped  forward  and  took  his 
whirling  thoughts  carefully  between  his 
two  hands.  "  I  ha'  done  wrong,"  he  pres- 
ently concluded.  "  I  ha'  murdered  my 
aged  an'  respectable  aunt  in  cold  blood. 
Tak'  my  weepon  an'  hale  me  to  the 
gallus." 

He  passed  his  revolver  over  to  a  firm 
grasp.  It  was  that  of  the  Duchess.  She 
was  bleeding  very  slightly,  the  merest 
trickle,  from  the  ear  which  MacLachan's 
bullet  had  grazed. 

"  Do  not  strike  him  again,"  she  bade 
Old  Sally,  composedly,  and  that  faithful 
amazon  dropped  her  bottle  and  lost  fifty 
cents'  worth  of  catchup. 

"  Come  home  before  you  get  into 
trouble,"  was  the  lady's  command  to  the 
now  cowed  and  repentant  tailor. 

Whimpering  and  rubbing  his  head,  he 

235 


Our  Square 

suffered  himself  to  be  marched  back  to  his 
Home  of  Fashion.  So  promptly  was  the 
retirement  executed  that  Terry  the  Cop 
never  knew  (officially)  what  had  taken 
place.  Unofficially  all  of  Our  Square  knew. 
And  the  following  day  a  deputation  of  us 
marched  MacLachan  around  to  No.  17 
to  apologize.  As  we  stood  on  the  stair- 
way awaiting  her  pleasure,  we  could  hear 
Madam  Rachel  Pinckney  Pemberton  Tal- 
lafferr  directing  Old  Sally  to  inform  the 
deputation  that  she  had  not,  to  the  best 
of  her  recollection,  evinced  any  intention 
of  receiving  on  that  particular  day,  and 
that  she  sent  her  compliments  to  us,  and 
was  not  at  home. 

"  That 's  the  high-toned  way  of  saying 
she  don't  want  to  see  us,"  chirped  the  ad- 
miring Mr.  Boggs  between  gratification 
and  apology.  "  Aristocrat  to  the  finger 
tips  !  Have  n't  I  always  told  you  so  ?" 

He  had,  to  the  uttermost  wearying  of 
the  flesh.  But  there  came  a  time  when 
236 


Tazmun 

he  boasted  less  assuredly  of  his  top-floor 
grandeur.  To  the  little  circle  at  the  Elite 
Restaurant  it  became  evident  that  some- 
thing was  preying  upon  the  blithe  spirit  of 
the  Angel  of  Death,  something  having  to  do 
with  his  Duchess.  One  evening,  in  a  burst 
of  confidence,  he  unburdened  himself  to 
the  Little  Red  Doctor  and  me.  Madam 
was,  he  feared,  losing  interest  in  the  lofty 
social  sphere  to  which  she  had  been  called. 
Seldom,  nowadays,  did  she  go  in  her  full 
regalia  uptown.  Automobiles  came  no 
more  to  his  flattered  door.  Worst  of  all, 
her  fascinating  mail  had  dwindled.  Where 
formerly  there  would  be  as  many  as  eight 
or  ten  envelopes  per  week,  decorated  with 
splendid  and  significant  insignia  and  inclos- 
ing proud  and  stifFcardboard,  now  there  was 
but  one  regular  communication  of  the  sort, 
the  letter  bearing  the  mystic  double  circle 
of  the  Spirit  of  Guidance  Group  and,  as  that 
was  postmarked  Brooklyn,  Mr.  Boggs  had 
a  small  notion  of  its  social  import.  Most 

237 


Our  Square 

of  her  days  the  aristocratic  lodger  now 
spent  at  solitaire,  with  Sempronius,  the 
black  cat,  for  critic.  Mr.  Boggs  surmised 
sadly  that  the  goddess  of  his  top-floor 
Olympus  was  growing  old. 

Very  likely  the  phenomenon  would  have 
gone  unexplained  to  this  day  had  not  both 
the  Rosser  twins  fallen  into  the  fountain 
simultaneously,  contrary  to  their  usual  cus- 
tom, which  is  for  one  of  them  to  take  the 
careless  plunge  while  the  other  dances  fran- 
tically on  terra  firma  and  yells  till  help 
comes.  Madam  Tallafferr  once  termed 
them  "  Death's  playmates/'  because  of  this 
ineradicable  passion  for  gambling  on  the 
brink  of  the  pool  which  is  just  deep  enough 
to  cover  their  two-year-old  heads.  On  this 
occasion  Old  Sally  was  the  nearest  aid.  So 
she  waddled  fatly  over  and  hauled  them 
out  easily  enough.  Then,  quite  inexplica- 
bly, she  fell  in  herself  and  lay  gently  oscil- 
lating at  the  bottom  of  three  feet  of  water. 
Still  more  inexplicably,  she  refused  to  come 
238 


Tazmun 

to  properly  when  Mr.  Boggs  and  I  fished 
her  out  after  not  more  than  thirty  seconds' 
immersion.  Also  she  looked  queerly  flat- 
tened and  misshapen  and  unnatural.  So  we 
ran  her  into  the  Little  Red  Doctor's  office 
and  awaited  the  verdict. 

It  was  a  long  wait.  When  at  length  the 
Little  Red  Doctor  emerged  there  was  a 
wild  kind  of  glint  in  his  eye. 

"  D'  you  know  what 's  the  matter  with 
that  old  black  idiot  ? "  he  demanded. 

"  Martyr  to  her  own  hee-roism,"  sug- 
gested Mr.  Boggs,  the  romantic.  "  Is  she 
drowned  ? " 

The  Little  Red  Doctor  snorted  :  "  She 's 
starved.  That 's  what  she  is !  " 

"She's  as  fat  as  butter,"  I  protested. 

"  Fat  like  a  sliver  !  "  retorted  the  phy- 
sician scornfully.  "  Padded  !  " 

"What  on  earth  should  she  pad  for  ? "  I 
cried. 

"  To  fool  her  mistress.  She 's  been  going 
without  food  so  as  to  buy  more  for  madam." 

239 


Our  Square 


At  this  information  the  eyes  of  the  De- 
stroying Angel  bade  fair  to  pop  from  their 
sockets  and  injure  the  Little  Red  Doctor 
toward  whom  they  were  violently  protrud- 
ing. "  D'  ye  meantersay  they  're  poor  ? >J 
he  gasped. 

The  Little  Red  Doctor  outlined  the 
history  of  the  aristocratic  pair,  as  he  had 
extracted  it  from  Old  Sally.  In  the  ex- 
traction he  had  grossly  violated  his  profes- 
sional ethics,  as  he  shamelessly  admitted, 
by  giving  her  a  half  glass  of  port,  which, 
on  her  pinched  stomach  operated  as  a 
tongue-loosener  and  betrayed  her  secret 
into  his  hands. 

"  I  'm  not  going  to  have  two  aged  fe- 
males dying  of  want  in  Our  Square  just  for 
the  sake  of  a  paper  ethic  or  two,"  he  de- 
clared rebelliously. 

According  to  what  he  had  learned,  the 
Duchess  had  left  Virginia  to  save  money 
and  appearances,  dragging  along  like  a  fet- 
ter a  debt  of  honor  contracted  by  a  worth- 
240 


Tazmun 

less  scamp  of  a  brother.  Of  course  it  was 
not  in  any  sense  a  legal  debt,  but  she,  with 
her  old-world  ideas,  had  considered  it  to 
be  a  blot  upon  the  family  'scutcheon,  and 
had  been  paying  interest,  and  bit  by  bit  the 
principal,  from  her  rigidly  conserved  little 
income.  Presently  an  investment  which 
had  been  indicated  through  the  Spirit  of 
Guidance  Group's  interpretation  of  one  of 
madam's  dreams  reduced  its  dividends  and 
madam  cut  off  a  few  of  her  filial  member- 
ships. Another  recommended  by  the  dream 
magazine  went  wholly  wrong.  More 
memberships  -were  reluctantly  resigned. 
Old  Sally,  as  head  of  the  commissary,  with 
full  powers  and  responsibilities,  was  com- 
pelled to  operate  on  a  radically  reduced 
apportionment.  Two  items  took  prece- 
dence of  all  else  —  the  rent  and  the  debt. 

"  You  meantertellme,"  chirped  Mr. 
Boggs,  "  that  Madam  TallafFerr  has  n't 
had  enough  to  eat  ? " 

"I  do  not,"  said  the  Little  Red  Doctor 
241 


Our  Square 


emphatically.  "  She  has.  Old  Sally  has  n't. 
But  her  mistress  does  n't  know  that." 

Mr.  Boggs  raised  pious  eyes  to  the  ceil- 
ing. "Wotche  going  to  do  about  it?"  he 
inquired.  He  was,  I  take  it,  reminding 
Providence  of  its  responsibility  in  the 
matter. 

The  Little  Red  Doctor  was  n't  for  leav- 
ing it  to  Providence.  "We've  got  to  find 
a  way  to  help." 

"  Charity  ?  To  madam  ? "  twittered  Mr. 
Boggs.  "  I  'd  hate  to  try  it  on." 

The  Little  Red  Doctor  scratched  his 
large  red  head  in  perplexity.  Then  he 
called  Old  Sally  in. 

"Now,  Sally,"  .said  he,  "we're  all 
friends  of  yours  here." 

"Yessuh,"  said  Old  Sally  gratefully. 

"And  friends  of  your  mistress's." 

Old  Sally  bristled.  "  My  young  mist'ess 
ain*  needin'  no  frien's  'roun'  yeah.  She 
hoi's  herhaid%6/" 

"  Well,  admirers,  then,"  the  Little  Red 
242 


azmun 


Doctor  tactfully  amended.  "  The  point 
is,  we  want  to  help.  Now,  have  n't  you  got 
some  things  there  you  could  sell  without 
missing  them  ?  Some  of  that  old  furniture 
must  be  valuable." 

"  Sell  the  Tallaffeh  homestead  fuhni- 
ture  !  "  cried  Old  Sally,  scandalized. 

"  Well,  perhaps  madam  has  more  of 
that  old  lace  than  she  needs." 

"  The  Pinckney  lace  !  "  said  Old  Sally 
in  a  tone  of  flat  finality,  which  settled  that 
point. 

"  Possibly,  then,  the  diamonds,"  I  sug- 
gested diffidently. 

At  this  Old  Sally's  lips,  which  had  been 
pressed  firmly  inward,  inverted  themselves. 
She  began  to  blubber.  The  blubbering  be- 
came a  sobbing.  The  sobs  waxed  to  sub- 
dued howls.  From  the  midst  of  the  howls 
one  coherent  and  astounding  statement 
emerged :  — 

"  I  stole  'em." 

"  Stole    the     Pemberton    diamonds !  " 

243 


Our  Square 

cried  Mr.  Boggs  in  consternation.  His 
structure  of  social  splendor  was  fast  dis- 
integrating. "What  did  you  do  with 
'em?" 

"  Hocked,"  wept  that  sorry  and  shrunk- 
en old  negress.  "Gossome  cheap  trash  in 
deir  place  to  fool  my  young  mist'ess.  Her 
sight  ain'  good  no  mo'." 

"  And  the  money  went  for  food,"  I 
suggested. 

"  Some.   Rest  I  put  on  a  dream  figgah." 

"  Policy,"  explained  the  Little  Red 
Doctor,  who  is  wise  in  the  ways  of  the 
world.  "  She  dreamed  a  number  and  put 
her  money  on  it  in  a  policy  shop.  And  it 
did  n't  come  out.  They  never  do." 

"  Ef  it  had,"  said  Old  Sally  eagerly, "  I'd 
'a'  had  money  to  pay  dat  eighteen  hund'ed 
an*  fo'ty-five  dollahs  an'  fifty  cents  debt, 
an'  plenty  mo'  besides."  Obviously  she 
had  been  wearing  that  hair-shirt  debt  next 
to  her  soul's  skin.  "  But  I  must  'a'  disre- 
membered  my  dream  figgah." 
244 


azmun 


"Very  likely,"  agreed  the  Little  Red 
Doctor  gravely.  "  Come  now,  Sally;  think. 
Is  n't  there  anything  you  could  sell  out  of 
the  house?" 

The  old  face  began  to  work  again.  "  My 
young  mist'ess  she  '11  like  to  skin  me  if  I 
tell,"  she  whimpered. 

"  I  '11  cross  your  eyes  like  Schepstein's, 
if  you  don't,"  threatened  the  Little  Red 
Doctor  savagely. 

A  deep  breath  signified  the  termination 
of  her  struggle  between  two  fears. 

"  Tazmun,"  she  enunciated  in  a  mys- 
tical voice. 

We  looked  at  each  other,  puzzled. 
"  What  ? "  queried  Mr.  Boggs. 

"  Tazmun.  You  know,  tazmun." 

"  What  on  earth  is  tazmun  ? " 

"  Tazmun,"  she  repeated  determinedly. 
"  Like  whut  you  keep  aroun'  you  to  fotch 
luck."  Seeing  us  still  at  a  loss,  she  sought 
and  evolved  an  illustration. 

'*  Rabbit  foot 's  a  tazmun." 
245 


Our  Square 


"  Talisman,"  I  translated  in  a  burst  of 
inspiration. 

"  Dass  it,  tazmun." 

"  But  you  can't  sell  a  talisman/*  ob- 
jected the  Little  Red  Doctor. 

"  Dis  tazmun  you  can,"  eagerly  asserted 
Old  Sally.  "  Wuth  a  heap  o'  money.  My 
young  mist'ess  keep  it  locked  up  in  her 
jool  box.  Lawzee !  How  I  has  tried  to 
get  my  han's  on  'at  ol'  tazmun  lettah. 
'Cause  we  sho'  need  de  money  fo'  it." 

"  A  letter  ?  " 

"  Dass  it.  Aut'graph  tazmun  letter. 
Fum  Gen'al  Stonewall  Jackson,  wrote  to 
ol'  Massah  Pemberton,  befo'  de  war." 

Mr.  Boggs  turned  to  me.  "  Dominie, 
you  know  everything."  (This  is  one  of 
the  perquisites  of  professing  the  classics 
in  Our  Square ;  it  has  also  its  drawbacks 
in  the  shape  of  disappointed  expectations.) 
"  Would  that  kind  of  letter  be  worth  real 
money  ? " 

"  It 's  a  fo'tellin'  lettah,"  put  in  Old 
246 


"Tazmun 

Sally  eagerly.  "  It  fo'tells  de  wah  mo' 
dan  ten  yeahs  befo'  de  wah." 

In  that  case,  I  thought,  it  might  be  valu- 
able historically.  Anyway  it  would  do  no 
harm  to  get  an  offer  from  an  expert.  But 
could  "young  mist'ess"  be  induced  to  let 
it  out  of  her  hands  ?  Young  mist'ess's  Old 
Sally  thought  it  doubtful.  Young  mist'ess, 
with  her  passion  for  the  things  of  the  Lost 
Cause,  held  that  document  in  sacred  vener- 
ation. Once  a  week  she  took  it  from  its 
neatly  addressed  envelope  to  read  it.  Her 
spirit  guide  had  repeatedly  advised  her  of 
its  preciousness,  and  had  declared  that  it 
would  eventually  bring  fortune  and  hap- 
piness to  her,  if  she  would  await  the  sign. 
What  sign  ?  Old  Sally  did  not  know.  But 
she  was  certain  that  a  marvelous  "  tazmun  " 
such  as  General  Stonewall  Jackson's  fore- 
telling letter  would  furnish  a  sign  beyond 
all  misconception. 

"  Sign  ?  She  shall  have  a  sign,"  mut- 
tered the  Little  Red  Doctor,  who  is  wholly 
247 


Our  Square 

without  conscience  in  any  matter  where  he 
can  pamper  his  insatiable  appetite  for  help- 
ing others.  Then  to  Sally :  "  But  don't  you 
say  a  word  to  her  of  what  you  have  told  us." 

"  Cotch  me  !  "  said  that  aged  crone.  "  I 
don*  want  to  get  skint" 

How  to  come  to  negotiations  with  the 
secluded  and  exclusive  Madam  Rachel 
Pinckney  Pemberton  Tallafferr  was  some- 
thing of  a  problem.  Strategy  was  useless 
against  that  keen  old  woman.  The  direct 
way  was  decided  upon  and  Mr.  Boggs  was 
appointed  emissary.  He  respectfully  pe- 
titioned that  the  lady  grant  a  conference 
to  the  Little  Red  Doctor,  myself,  and  him- 
self upon  a  matter  of  business.  Prefacing 
her  gracious  consent  with  the  comment 
that  she  could  not  conceive  what  it  was 
about,  she  set  an  hour  for  receiving  us. 
When  we  climbed  to  the  top  floor  above 
the  Angel  of  Death  sign,  we  found  her  a 
faded  and  splendid  figure  amid  the  faded 
splendor  of  her  belongings.  She  was  clad 
248 


Tazmun 

in  her  stiffest  black,  she  sat  in  the  biggest 
Tallafferr  chair,  her  throat  emerged  from 
the  delicate  and  precious  Pinckney  lace, 
and  there  glittered  in  her  innocent  ears  a 
grotesque  travesty  upon  the  small  but  time- 
honored  Pemberton  diamonds.  I  knew 
on  sight  what  she  would  say.  She  said  it: 
"To  what  am  I  indebted,  sirs,  for  this 
visit  ? " 

The  Little  Red  Doctor  explained  that 
we  were  interested,  historically,  in  a  docu- 
ment which  she  possessed.  The  Duchess's 
sharp  glance  passed  over  me  to  rest  sar- 
donically upon  Mr.  Boggs,  seeming  to 
inquire  with  what  historical  interest  that 
insecticidal  nemesis  might  be  credited ; 
then  leaped  upon  and  fixed  the  spokes- 
man :  "  How,  may  I  ask,  did  you  learn  of 
this  document?" 

"  Through  a  dream,"  replied  that  shame- 
less one. 

Her   glance   livened.     "Strange,"    she 
murmured.  "You  dreamed  —  what?" 
249 


Our  Square 


"  That  there  was  preserved  at  the  top 
of  this  house  a  prophetic  letter  of  Stone- 
wall Jackson's." 

The  old  lady's  eyebrows  twitched.  He 
had  touched  the  right  chord  of  supersti- 
tion. Her  voice  was  quite  animated  as 
she  asked:  "And  you  actually  expect  this 
dream  to  be  confirmed  ? " 

"  Pardon  me ;  it  is  already  confirmed. 
A  few  days  after,  I  saw  a  newspaper  clip- 
ping, stating  that  such  a  letter  was  said  to 
be  in  existence,  but  that  its  whereabouts 
was  unknown." 

I  shuddered.  Could  n't  the  reckless  idiot 
foresee  the  next  question  ?  It  came,  straight 
and  sharp  :  — 

"  Have  you  the  clipping  ? " 

« I  have." 

I  gasped  with  relief,  wonder,  and  ad- 
miration. 

He  had.  That  wise  young  Ananias  had 
quietly  provided  for  it  all  by  getting  Inky 
Mike,  who  loftily  terms  himself  a  journal- 
250 


azmun 


ist  (being  a  pressman's  assistant  in  a  social- 
ist weekly  office),  to  set  up  and  strike  off  a 
brief  and  vague  article  which  the  Little 
Red  Doctor  himself  had  composed  for  the 
occasion.  Madam  TallafFer  read  it  with 
heightened  color. 

"  This,"  she  said  to  Old  Sally  calmly, 
"  is  without  doubt  the  Sign.'* 

From  a  beautifully  inlaid  box  she  rev- 
erently took  an  old  buff  envelope,  stamped 
and  postmarked,  and  put  it  in  the  Little 
Red  Doctor's  hands.  "  This,  sirs,"  said  she, 
"  is  my  talisman.  It  was  given  to  me,  as  his 
most  prized  possession,  by  my  father,  to 
whom  it  was  written." 

"  What  do  you  value  this  at,  Madam 
Tallafferr?"  asked  the  physician. 

Her  reply  came  without  hesitation. 
"Eighteen  hundred  and  forty-five  dollars 
and  fifty  cents." 

The  Little  Red  Doctor's  jaw  fell. 
"Eighteen  —  did  I  understand  you  to  say 
eighteen  hundred?  " 

251 


Our  Square 


"  And  forty-five  dollars  and  fifty  cents. 
That  is  the  minimum.  It  is  perhaps  worth 
more." 

"Er — yes.  Certainly.  Very  likely,"  said 
the  Little  Red  Doctor  jerkily. 

"I  bid  you  good  day,  sirs,"  said  the 
Duchess.  "  You  will,  of  course,  exercise 
every  care  of  General  Jackson's  letter." 

We  bowed  ourselves  out.  On  the  side- 
walk we  looked  upon  each  other  in  dis- 
may. "And  Old  Sally  down  to  the  last 
dollar,"  said  the  Little  Red  Doctor,  neg- 
lecting to  mention  that  he  had  given  her 
the  dollar. 

"  Let 's  try  the  letter  on  the  trade,  any- 
way," piped  Boggs  hopefully.  "  You  can't 
tell  but  maybe  it  might  be  worth  the 
money.  Is  there  an  autograph  trade,  domi- 
nie?" 

In    my    capacity    of    omniscience,    I 

chanced,  happily  for  my  reputation,  to  be 

informed  upon  this  and  to  be  able  to  make 

some  definite  suggestions.  We  went  to  Mr. 

252 


Tazmun 

Barker's  small  and  recherche  curio  shop, 
with  the  talisman.  Mr.  Barker  did  not 
bark.  He  purred.  The  substance  of  his 
purring  was  that  while  the  letter  was  au- 
thentic beyond  question  and  would  be  of 
interest  to  some  Southern  historical  so- 
ciety, it  could  claim  no  special  value.  As 
for  the  prophetic  feature,  upon  which  so 
much  stress  had  been  laid,  a  mere  opinion 
that,  "  Be  it  sooner  or  be  it  later,  the  moot 
question  of  State  rights  will  demand  a  final 
settlement,"  could  hardly  be  regarded  as  an 
inspired  forecast  of  the  Civil  War.  How- 
ever, should  we  say  twenty-five  dollars  ? 

As  the  business  brains  of  our  delegation, 
Mr.  Boggs,  intrusted  with  the  bargain- 
ing, would  not  say  twenty-five  dollars.  Mr. 
Boggs  would  not  say  anything  remotely 
suggesting  twenty-five  dollars.  Mr.  Boggs 
would  say  good  day,  which  he  forthwith 
did  in  great  disgust  of  spirit.  From  Mr. 
Barker  we  went  to  Mr.  Pompany.  Mr. 
Pompany  neither  barked  nor  purred.  He 

253 


Our  Square 

mumbled.  The  upshot  of  his  submaxillary 
communication  was  a  dim  "Twenty  dol- 
lars, take  it  or  leave  it."  We  left  it,  and 
Mr.  Pompany,  the  latter  with  a  Parthian 
arrow  sticking  in  his  soul  (if  he  had  one) 
in  the  form  of  Mr.  Boggs's  firm  opinion, 
delivered  in  a  baleful  squeak,  that  he  might 
be  only  an  ignoramus,  but  had  rather  the 
appearance  and  bearing  of  a  swindler. 

"Thieves!"  piped  Mr.  Boggs  on  the 
sidewalk.  "Thieves  and  fatheads,  the 
whole  trade.  What  now?" 

"  Schepstein,"  said  the  Little  Red  Doc- 
tor. "He's  a  thief  too.  But  he  knows." 

Schepstein  received  us  in  his  grubby, 
grimy,  desolated  front  room,  which  did 
duty  as  an  office,  with  a  malevolent  cross-fire 
from  his  distorted  eyes.  "  Bit  of  business? " 
he  repeated  after  Mr.  Boggs.  "  What  busi- 
ness? State  your  business." 

"  For  sale,"  piped  Mr.  Boggs,  handing 
him  the  letter  which  he  had  taken  from 
the  envelope. 

254 


azmun 


Hardly  a  glance  did  Schepstein  give  it. 
"Thomas  Jonathan  Jackson?  Who  's  he? 
And  who  's  this  Major  Pemberton?" 

Mr.  Boggs  explained,  in  indignant  pic- 
colo tones,  who  Thomas  Jonathan  Jack- 
son was.  Not  about  Major  Pemberton, 
however.  No  authority  had  been  given  to 
our  deputation  to  disclose  the  ownership 
of  the  letter.  So  far  as  we  were  aware  at 
that  time,  it  would  have  meant  nothing 
to  Schepstein  anyway.  We  had  no  reason, 
then,  to  suppose  that  he  even  knew  Madam 
TallafFerr. 

"  Humph ! "  grunted  Schepstein. "  Stone- 
wall Jackson,  eh  ?  Might  be  worth  some- 
thing. Lessee  the  envelope." 

He  looked  it  over  carefully,  front  and 
back,  folded  the  letter  which  he  had  not 
even  read,  and  slipped  it  back  in.  "  Leave 
it  with  me  overnight,"  he  suggested  neg- 
ligently. "  I  '11  think  it  over  and  make  you 
a  price  in  the  morning." 

"Think  as  much  as  you  like,"  returned 


Our  Square 

Mr.  Boggs,  retrieving  the  treasure.  "We'll 
keep  this.  And  we  '11  be  back  at  eleven 
to-morrow." 

Observe,  now,  the  advantages  of  living 
in  a  small  self-centered  community  like 
Our  Square,  where  everybody  has  an  in- 
timate (if  not  invariably  friendly)  interest 
in  everybody  else's  affairs.  Inky  Mike  had 
noted  with  curiosity  our  visit  to  Schepstein. 
As  a  press  tender,  the  inky  one  naturally 
aspires  to  be  a  reporter,  but  his  ideal  re- 
porter, being  derived  mainly  from  journal- 
ism as  set  forth  in  the  movies,  is  a  species 
of  glorified  compromise  between  Sherlock 
Holmes  and  Horace  Greeley  in  a  rich 
variety  of  disguises.  He  had  no  disguise 
handy,  but  he  washed  his  face  and  followed 
Schepstein  when  that  astute  bargainer  set 
forth  immediately  after  our  visit.  Further, 
he  listened  outside  the  booth  while  the 
object  of  his  sleuthing  phoned  a  telegram. 
As  he  reported  it  in  great  excitement  to 
our  trio,  it  was  addressed  to  a  gentleman 
256 


Tazmun 

named  Olds,  in  Cincinnati  and  read  to  this 
esoteric  effect :  — 

"  Alexandra  local  five  forty-six  perfect. 
What  price  ?  Answer  quick." 

"Who's  Olds?"  asked  the  Little  Red 
Doctor. 

"Olds?  Doncher  know  Olds?"  cried 
Inky  Mike.  "  The  oil  king  ?  The  multa- 
millionaire  ? " 

"  What  has  this  to  do  with  us  ? "  I  asked. 
"  It  seems  to  be  some  oil  quotation.  What 
does  'Alexandra  local'  mean?" 

"Search  me!"  offered  the  amateur 
sleuth.  "  But  don'choo  fool  yourself!  It's 
your  business,  awright.  He  snook  out  after 
you  went,  shakin'  all  over." 

Mr.  Boggs,  who  from  the  first  had  been 
profoundly  impressed  by  his  Duchess's 
tradition-inspired  estimate  of  the  auto- 
graph, nodded  a  sagacious  head.  "  Trust 
old  Schep!"  he  fluted. 

"When  I've  his  money  in  hand;  not 
before,"  grunted  the  Little  Red  Doctor. 
257 


Our  Square 

When  we  called  at  the  dingy  and  lonely 
flat  on  the  following  morning,  Schepstein's 
face  was  a  mask  of  smiling  craft. 

"It's  worth  possibly — pos-sib-bly  fif- 
teen dollars  as  a  spec,"  he  said. 

"No,"  cheeped  Mr.  Boggs. 

"  But  the  autograph  market  is  looking 
up.  I  '11  take  a  chanst  and  give  you  twenty- 
five.  Cash,"  he  added  impressively. 

"No,"  repeated  Mr.  Boggs. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  de- 
manded Schepstein  with  rising  truculence. 
"  D'  you  wanta  sell  or  don't  cha  ?  What 's 
your  price  ?" 

"  Eighteen  hundred  and  forty-five  dol- 
lars and  fifty  cents,"  said  Mr.  Boggs  in  a 
clear,  businesslike  soprano. 

Schepstein  did  not  sneer,  nor  explode, 
nor  curse,  nor  do  any  of  the  things  which 
I  confidently  expected  him  to  do.  His 
convergent  vision  seemed  to  focus  on  the 
buff  envelope  in  Mr.  Boggs's  lumpy  hand. 
He  looked  thoughtful,  and,  it  seemed  to 


Tazmun 

me,  almost  respectful.  "As  she  stands?'* 
he  asks. 

"  As  she  stands,"  assented  Mr.  Boggs. 

"  Bought,"  said  Schepstein.  And  he 
wrote  out  a  check  to  "  Bearer." 

At  this  the  Little  Red  Doctor  lost  his 
head  and  profoundly  altered  the  situation. 
"  By  thunder  !  "  he  cried,  "  Madam  Tal- 
lafFerr  knew  what  she  was  talking  about  all 
the  time." 

Schepstein  dropped  his  pen.  "  Who  ? " 
he  asked  in  a  rasping  voice. 

"  Madam  Tallafferr,  across  Our  Square 
in  Seventeen. " 

"  Was  that  her  letter  ?" 

"  Yes.  We  are  acting  as  her  agents." 

"  Ah,  hell !  "  said  Schepstein  softly. 

Then  an  astounding  thing  happened. 
Two  small,  pinched  tears  welled  out  from 
the  ill-matched  points  of  flint  which  serve 
Schepstein  for  eyes.  They  were  followed 
by  two  more.  The  little,  gnarly,  cross- 
grained  Jew  drooped  over  the  desk  and  his 
259 


Our  Square 

shoulders  shook.  A  voice  of  falsetto  anguish 
roused  him. 

"Don't  cry  on  the  check!  You'll 
smudge  it." 

Schepstein  lifted  his  head  and  gloomed 
at  Boggs.  "  Nevamind  that;  it 's  all  off,'* 
he  gulped.  "  I  got  something  to  tell  you 
people." 

Between  queer,  shamed  breath-catch- 
ings,  he  told  us  about  his  Metta's  funeral. 
At  the  end  he  read  us  a  telegram  from 
Quentin  Olds.  When  I  was  able  to  assimi- 
late its  full  meaning,  I  found  myself  shak- 
ing hands  with  Schepstein,  while  Mr. 
Boggs  danced  a  jig  with  the  Little  Red 
Doctor.  Then  Schepstein  tore  up  the 
check  for  $1845.50  and  invited  us  around 
to  the  Elite  Restaurant  to  luncheon,  thereby 
affording  a  sensational  titbit  of  news  for 
Polyglot  Elsa's  relating  for  a  fortnight 
after.  "  Mr.  Schepstein,  he  paid  the  whole 
compte.  Was  kennst  du  about  that !  " 

Three  days  were  required  to  finish  the 
260 


> 

s 

• 


s 

^» 
-£J 


Tazmun 

deal.  Then  through  Old  Sally  the  deputa- 
tion trio  sought  and  obtained  another  audi- 
ence from  the  Duchess.  Mr.  Boggs  did  the 
talking  in  terms  worthy  of  his  environment. 
"  We  have  successfully  terminated  the  ne- 
gotiations, Madame  TallafFerr,"  he  began. 

The  Duchess  bowed  in  silent  dignity. 

"  And  I  have  now  the  honor  of  turning 
over  to  you  eighteen  hundred  and  forty- 
five  dollars  and  fifty  cents,  as  —  " 

"  Hally-loo-yah,  tazmun !  "  burst  out 
Old  Sally.  "Rally  —  hally  —  hally— " 
She  caught  her  mistress's  austere  glance. 
"  I  knowed  it  was  comin'  so  all  along," 
she  concluded,  heroically  compressing  her- 
self to  a  calm  if  belated  assurance. 

"  —  as  the  minimum  price  stipulated," 
pursued  Mr.  Boggs. 

"  I  thank  you,"  said  the  Duchess. 

"  Also,"  concluded  the  agent,  "  a  bal- 
ance, after  deducting  all  expenses,  of  two 
thousand  one  hundred  and  fifty-three  dol- 
lars and  twenty  cents." 
261 


Our  Square 

The  Duchess's  face  never  so  much  as 
changed.  "  That  is  entirely  satisfactory," 
she  observed.  "  I  have  to  thank  you  all 
for  your  successful  efforts  in  securing  a 
suitable  price.  My  only  regret,"  the  quiet 
voice  faltered  a  little,  "  is  that  circum- 
stances should  have  forced  me  to  part  with 
an  expression  of  esteem  for  my  beloved 
father  from  one  who  was  the  greatest  mili- 
tary hero  of  all  history.'* 

"  You  're  in  wrong,  lady,"  caroled  Mr. 
Boggs,  his  rhetoric  suddenly  melting  in  his 
excitement.  "  We  sold  the  envelope  alone 
for  four  thousand  dollars  net.  There  *s 
only  three  other  of  them  1846  Alexan- 
dria postmaster's  stamps  in  the  world  to- 
day. So  here 's  your  Stonewall  letter  as 
good  as  new." 

"  My  Gawsh  !  "  said  old  Sally,  and  fell 
down  upon  the  floor  and  rolled  and  gave 
praise  after  the  manner  of  her  race,  unre- 
buked  this  time  of  her  mistress. 

That  aged  and  grand  dame  took  back 
262 


azmun 


the  letter  with  a  hand  which,  for  all  that 
it  had  been  rock-firm  when  it  received 
MacLachan's  revolver,  now  trembled  a 
little.  But  her  sole  comment  was :  "  And 
yet  there  are  those  so  obstinate  and  short- 
sighted as  to  deny  that  the  spirits  guide  us 
for  our  own  good." 

Once  more,  finely  embossed  stationery 
came  pouring  in  at  No.  17,  Our  Square, 
proudly  edifying  the  soul  of  Mr.  Boggs. 
Once  more  Madam  TallafFerr  went  forth 
on  missions  of  social  splendor,  westward 
and  uptown,  sometimes  in  an  automobile. 
Once  more  the  restored  Pemberton  dia- 
monds glistened  in  the  fine,  withered  ears, 
Old  Sally  having  confessed  and  been  duly 
beaten  and  forgiven. 

Old  Sally  herself,  replete  and  pompous, 
trotted  to  and  fro  in  Our  Square,  brimful  of 
smiling  hints  of  a  great  honor  that  was  to 
come  to  us.  Her  young  mist'ess,  she  let  it  be 
known,  was  graciously  pleased  to  be  recog- 
263 


Our  Square 

nizant  of  the  part,  useful  though  humble, 
which  Our  Square  had  played  in  her  rees- 
tablished fortunes,  and  she  was  about  to 
acknowledge  it  in  a  manner  worthy  of  her 
family  and  her  traditions.  In  Old  Sally's 
own  words,  she  was  going  to  "  mo'  dan 
even  it  up  wif  you  all."  Curiosity,  specu- 
lation, and  surmise  had  become  almost 
morbid  in  Our  Square,  when  one  morning 
there  burst  upon  us,  in  an  effulgence  of 
glory,  a  mail  as  splendid  as  any  which  had 
ever  brightened  Mr.  Boggs's  worshiping 
eyes  on  its  passage  upward  to  his  top  floor. 
To  Mr.  Boggs  himself  it  came,  to  Schep- 
stein,  to  the  Little  Red  Doctor,  to  me, 
to  Polyglot  Elsa,  and  to  many  others, 
even  down  the  scale  as  far  as  Inky  Mike, 
this  big  white  envelope,  sealed  with  a  square 
of  black  sealing  wax  and  inclosing  a  most 
gratifyingly  proud  and  stiff  pasteboard  card. 
That  card  still  stands  carefully  dusted  on 
many  a  mantel  of  Our  Square,  a  guer- 
don and  manifesto  of  social  glory.  At  the 
264 


azmun 


top  of  it  is  blazoned  the  crest  of  the 
Tallafferrs,  standing  between  the  flag  of  the 
Confederacy  and  the  coat  of  arms  of  Old 
Virginia.  Below  runs  this  legend  —  in  real 
engraving  if  you  please  :  — 

Madam  Rachel  Pinckney  Pemberton  Tallajferr 

solicits  the  honor  of  your  -presence  at 
Number  Seventeen,  Our  Square,  on  Friday, 
November  Eighteenth,  to  view  an  autograph 
letter  indited  to  her  honored  father,  the  late 
Major  Eently  Pemberton,  by 

LIEUTENANT  (AFTERWARD  GENERAL) 
THOMAS  JONATHAN  JACKSON 

Of  the  Army  of  the  Confederate 

States  of  America. 
Refreshments.  R.  S.  V.  P 

Our  Square  had  won  social  recognition. 


The  Meanest  Man  in  Our 
Square 

MILES  MORSE  was  his  name.  He 
lived  over  on  the  north  side  of  Our 
Square,  two  doors  from  the  Varick  Man- 
sion, in  a  small,  neat,  solid,  and  very  pri- 
vate house.  His  age  was  uncertain.  His 
appearance  was  arid.  His  garb  was  plain 
and  black.  His  expression  was  unfriendly. 
His  business  was  making  money  and  his 
pleasure  keeping  the  money  when  made. 
He  was  a  fixture  of  long  standing  in  our 
little  community,  as  much  so  as  the  paving 
stones  in  the  park  space  facing  his  house, 
and  as  insensate  to  the  human  struggle 
around  him  as  they.  As  to  his  neighbors, 
he  asked  nothing  and  gave  nothing.  Be- 
hind his  back,  and  not  always  very  far  be- 
hind it,  he  was  called  the  Meanest  Man 
in  Our  Square. 

266 


"The  Meanest  Man 


Every  morning  at  eight  o'clock  the 
Meanest  Man  went  to  his  office  some- 
where far  downtown  where,  it  was  under- 
stood, he  did  something  sly  and  under- 
handed connected  with  notes  and  loans. 
Every  afternoon  at  four  o'clock  he  visited 
the  local  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  where  he  was  (mis- 
takenly) supposed  to  put  in  his  hour  and 
a  half  in  reading,  on  the  theory  that  it  was 
cheaper  to  patronize  that  library  than  to 
buy  books  or  rent  them  from  the  penny 
circulator.  The  rest  of  his  life  was  strictly 
and  determinedly  private.  Passing  to  and 
fro  upon  his  concerns,  he  faced  the  deni- 
zens of  Our  Square  with  the  blank  regard 
of  huge,  horn-rimmed,  blue  glasses  which 
he  always  wore  out  of  doors.  Only  for 
Terry  the  Cop,  MacLachan,  the  Little 
Red  Doctor,  and  Cyrus  the  Gaunt,  did 
he  have  a  curt,  silent  nod,  and  for  the 
Bonnie  Lassie  an  awkward  bow.  The 
rest  of  us  might  as  well  not  have  existed. 
Naturally  there  were  few  who  had  a  good 
267 


Our  Square 


word  for  him.  Of  these  Terry  the  Cop 
was  one. 

"  Anyway,  he  has  a  grand  pair  of  hands," 
Terry  has  been  heard  to  aver. 

On  the  strength  of  this  opinion,  the 
Bonnie  Lassie,  who  needed  a  really  superior 
pair  of  hands  for  a  sculpture  which  she 
was  then  employed  upon,  made  a  point  of 
catching  Miles  Morse  in  the  park  and  com- 
pelling him  to  shake  hands  with  her,  to 
his  resentful  embarrassment.  Subsequently 
she  took  our  guardian  of  the  peace  to  task. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  could  have 
been  thinking  of,  Terry,"  she  declared. 
"  His  hands  are  knuckly  outside  and  puffy 
inside." 

"  You  should  see  'em  in  the  court,"  said 
Terry  cryptically. 

Not  clearly  comprehending  what  stand- 
ing in  court  Mr.  Morse's  hands  would 
give  him,  the  Bonnie  Lassie  dropped  the 
subject.  On  her  own  account,  however, 
she  had  a  suspicion  of  redeeming  qualities 
268 


The  Meanest  Man 


in  the  Meanest  Man.  For  one  thing,  she 
knew  of  a  battered  and  disreputable  kitten, 
rescued  by  Miles  Morse  from  a  strong  and 
hostile  combination  of  small  boys  and  big 
dogs,  at  no  small  peril  to  himself,  and  taken 
to  the  very  private  house,  where  it  grew 
into  battered  and  disreputable  but  com- 
petent cathood  and  now  welcomed  him 
home  every  evening  with  extravagant  dem- 
onstrations of  regard.  Also  a  certain  scene 
enacted  in  sight  of  her  studio  windows  had 
stuck  in  her  memory  ;  a  powerful  and  half- 
drunken  brute  of  a  teamster  flaying  an  over- 
done horse  ;  the  interposition  of  the  Mean- 
est Man ;  the  infuriated  descent,  whip  in 
hand,  of  the  driver  ;  the  rush  at  the  spare, 
trim,  uncombative-looking  man  who  had 
removed  his  spectacles  and  pocketed  them ; 
then  the  inexplicable  and  dismayed  check 
in  mid  onset  of  the  assailant.  The  Bonnie 
Lassie  could  n't  understand  it  at  all ;  she 
could  n't  see  why  that  avalanche  of  wrath, 
profanity,  and  bulk  didn't  simply  over- 
269 


Our  Square 


whelm  its  object  —  until  she  ran  to  the 
door  and  opened  it.  Then  she  saw  Miles 
Morse's  face  and  understood.  It  had  hard- 
ened into  a  contraction  of  rage  so  savage, 
so  concentrated,  so  murderous,  that  the 
drink-inspired  fury  of  the  human  brute 
paled  before  it. 

"  Back  on  your  wagon !  "  ordered  Morse. 
He  spoke  not  as  man  speaks  to  man,  but 
as  man  speaks  to  beast. 

"Wot  —  wotcha  goin'  t'  do,  boss  ?"  fal- 
tered the  other. 

"  Put  you  in  jail." 

Sobered  now,  and  cowed,  the  man 
jumped  to  his  seat  and  whipped  up  his 
horses,  in  the  hope  of  escaping.  The 
Meanest  Man  broke  into  a  long,  effortless 
stride.  There  was  no  need  to  tell  the  wit- 
ness that  he  would  not  be  shaken  off  until 
the  quarry  was  in  the  hands  of  the  police. 

Now  it  happened  that  the  High  Gods 
of  Council  who  unofficially  rule  Our 
Square  held  conference  not  long  thereafter 
270 


The  Meanest  Man 

upon  a  project,  advanced  by  the  Little  Red 
Doctor,  for  a  local  legal-aid  organization 
with  an  office  and  an  attendant.  Money 
was  needed,  and  money  is  one  of  our  rarest 
phenomena. 

It  was  the  Bonnie  Lassie  who  suggested 
that  the  Meanest  Man  in  Our  Square  be 
approached  for  a  contribution.  Polite  jeers 
greeted  the  proposal.  Thereupon  the 
Bonnie  Lassie  narrated  the  instance  of 
the  beaten  horse  and  backed  it  up  with 
Emerson :  — 

"  JT  is  a  sin  to  Heaven  above 
One  iota  to  abate 
Of  a  just,  impartial  hate." 

"  Where  does  that  get  in  with  the  Mean- 
est Man?"  inquired  Cyrus  the  Gaunt. 

"  He  does  n't  hate  anything  except 
giving  up  money,"  added  the  Little  Red 
Doctor. 

"  He  hates  cruelty,"  retorted  the  Bonnie 
Lassie.  "  And  he  's  brave.  Two  points  to 
his  credit.  I  believe  you  could  do  any- 
271 


Our  Square 


thing  with  the  Meanest  Man  if  you  could 
get  him  mad  enough." 

"Well,  my  dearest,'*  said  Cyrus  the 
Gaunt  with  that  condescending  surrender 
which  is  one  of  his  few  faults  as  a  husband, 
"since  you  have  so  good  an  opinion  of 
Mr.  Morse,  suppose  you  tackle  him  for  a 
contribution." 

"  I  will,"  said  the  Bonnie  Lassie.  "  I  '11 
go  now." 

She  went.  Presently  she  returned.  It 
was  not  the  return  of  a  victress. 

"How  much?"  asked  the  Little  Red 
Doctor. 

The  Bonnie  Lassie  threw  out  empty  and 
eloquent  hands. 

"  And  what  did  he  say  ? "  inquired  Cyrus 
the  Gaunt. 

"  He  indicated  that  he  'd  see  me  in  Hades 
first." 

"Then  I  '11  go  over  and  knock  his  head 
off,"    declared    her    husband,  reddening. 
"  I  've  always  wanted  to  do  it  anyway." 
272 


"The  Meanest  Man 


"  Nothing  of  the  sort — goose !  I  did  n't 
say  he  said  it.  I  said  he  indicated  it.  It 
was  his  manner.  Verbally  he  was  polite 
enough.  Said  he  did  n't  believe  in  charity." 

Cyrus  the  Gaunt  snorted. 

"  Gave  his  reasons  too.  He  said  he  does 
n't  believe  in  charity  because  it  makes  the 
recipient  think  too  ill  of  himself,  which  is 
bad,  and  the  giver  think  too  well  of  him- 
self, which  is  worse." 

"  Something  in  that,"  grudged  the  Little 
Red  Doctor. 

"Isn't  there!  I  tried  to  explain  the 
usefulness  of  the  Legal  Aid  Society,  but  he 
said  that  people  who  got  into  court  were 
fools  and  people  who  hired  lawyers  to  lie 
for  them  were  knaves.  Then"  —  the  Bon- 
nie Lassie  dimpled  —  "  he  caught  me  sniff- 
ing at  his  musty  old  house  and  asked  me 
what  was  the  matter,  and  I  asked  him  if 
it  had  ever  been  dusted  and  aired,  and  he 
said  that  he  was  afraid  he'd  have  to  get  a 
housekeeper  and  if  I  'd  get  him  one — the 

273 


Our  Square 


right  kind  of  a  one  —  an  old,  respectable, 
honest  woman  who  'd  do  all  the  work 
while  he  was  away  so  that  he  'd  never  have 
to  see  her,  he'd  contribute  to  our  fund" 
-  the  Bonnie  Lassie  paused  for  effect  — 
"ten  dollars." 

When  the  assembled  council  had  finished 
expressing  its  various  emotions  the  speaker 
continued :  — 

"  I  've  got  a  month  to  do  it  in.  So  I 
made  him  make  out  the  check  and  hold 
it,  unsigned." 

"  What 's  the  idea,  Lassie  ? "  asked  Mac- 
Lachan  the  Tailor. 

"  The  leak-in-the-dike  principle,"  she 
explained  profoundly.  "The  ten  dollars 
is  just  the  first  trickle.  If  we  ever  get  him 
started,  Heaven  help  him  before  we  let 
him  stop.  I  'm  going  to  get  that  ten  dol- 
lars if  I  have  to  take  the  position  myself." 

But  she  was  not  driven  to  that  length. 
It  is  a  recognized  fact  in  Our  Square  that 
when  the  Bonnie  Lassie  determines  to  get 
274 


The  Meanest  Man 


anything  done,  Providence,  with  rank 
favoritism,  invariably  steps  in  and  does  it 
for  her.  This  powerful  and  unfailing  ally 
it  was  that  brought  Molly  Dunstan  to  Our 
Square,  white-faced,  hot-eyed,  and  with 
a  gnawing  fire  of  despair  at  her  heart, 
plunging  blindly  against  the  onset  of  a 
furious  March  wind,  until  the  lights  of 
Schoenkind's  drug  store  guided  her  to  har- 
bor. In  the  absence  of  Schoenkind,  who 
was  dining  late  at  the  Elite  Restaurant, 
young  Irvy  Levinson  was  keeping  shop, 
and  as  Young  Irvy  is  of  a  cheerful,  care- 
free, and  undiscriminating  disposition  he 
made  no  bones  of  selling  the  wind-beaten 
customer  a  bottle  of  a  certain  potent  drug 
which  has  various  properties  and  virtues 
back  of  its  skull-and-crossbones  label,  one 
of  the  latter  being  that  it  is  prompt  though 
painful.  With  her  purchase,  Molly  plunged 
back  into  the  storm,  turned  toward  the 
dim  park  space,  and  bumped  violently  into 
the  Little  Red  Doctor.  Gently  releasing 
275 


Our  Square 

her,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  face.  Its 
aspect  was  not  reassuring.  Young  women 
who  come  blundering  out  of  drug  stores 
with  that  expression  and  make  for  the 
nearest  quiet  spot  not  infrequently  cause 
needless  trouble  to  the  busy  authorities. 
Opening  Schoenkind's  door,  the  Little 
Red  Doctor  thrust  into  the  aperture  his 
earnest  face  and  this  no  less  earnest  query: 

"What  did  that  last  customer  buy?" 

"  Carbolic,'*  replied  Young  Irvy  light- 
heartedly.  "For  a  dog.  Ast  if  it  hurt 
much." 

The  door  slammed  with  much  the  effect 
of  an  oath,  and  the  questioner  sprinted  for 
the  park.  Being  wise  in  the  way  of  human 
misery,  he  knew  that  mysterious  instinct 
of  suicides  which  guides  them,  no  matter 
what  their  chosen  method  of  self-destruc- 
tion, toward  water.  Therefore  he  took  the 
shortest  route  for  Our  Fountain. 

Young  Irvy's  customer  sat  huddled  on 
a  bench  at  the  water's  edge.  The  bottle 
276 


The  Meanest  Man 


was  in  her  hand,  uncorked.  She  had  just 
made  a  trial  of  the  liquid  on  her  hand, 
and  was  crying  softly  because  it  burned. 
As  the  Little  Red  Doctor's  grip  closed  on 
her  wrist,  she  gasped  and  sought  to  raise 
the  drug  to  her  lips. 

"  Drop  it !  "  said  her  captor  in  the  voice 
of  authority. 

She  obeyed.  But  she  misinterpreted  the 
authority.  "  Is  it  to  jail  ye  '11  be  taking 
me?"  she  asked  despairingly. 

The  soft  appeal  of  the  voice,  with  its 
faint  touch  of  the  brogue,  shook  the  Little 
Red  Doctor.  One  glance  at  the  piteously 
lined  young  face  conquered  him.  He  for- 
mulated his  program  on  the  spot. 

"Jail?"  he  echoed  in  affected  surprise. 
"What  for?" 

She  glanced  mutely  at  the  shattered 
bottle. 

"Oh,  that's  foolish  stuff  to  use  for 
warts,"  he  observed  carelessly,  lifting  the 
hand,  which  was  as  soft  and  smooth  and 
277 


Our  Square 

free  from  blemish  as  a  moth's  wing. 
"  Now,  you  come  with  me  to  a  friend  of 
mine,  and  she  '11  fix  that  burnt  finger." 

Many  men  there  are  in  whom  dogs  con- 
fide instinctively  ;  fewer  who  win  offhand 
the  confidence  of  children,  and  a  rare  few 
whom  women  trust  at  sight.  Of  this  few  is 
the  Little  Red  Doctor.  His  captive  fol- 
lowed him  without  protest  to  the  nestling 
little  house  with  the  quaint  old  door  and 
the  broad,  friendly  vestibule  which  had 
been  her  husband's  wedding  gift  to  the 
Bonnie  Lassie.  There,  without  fuss  or 
query,  Molly  Dunstan  was  accepted  as  a 
guest,  and  presently,  too  worn  out  even  to 
wonder,  she  was  deep  in  healing  sleep,  in 
the  spare  room  over  the  studio. 

In  the  morning  she  presented  herself  to 
her  hostess's  unobtrusive  but  keen  observa- 
tion: a  wistful  slip  of  a  woman  of  perhaps 
twenty-five,  with  hollow  cheeks,  deep- 
brown,  frightened  eyes,  a  softly  drooping 
mouth,  and  a  satiny  skin  from  which  the 
278 


The  Meanest  Man 


color  had  ebbed;  a  woman  whose  dainty 
prettiness  had  been  overlaid  but  not  im- 
paired by  privation  and  some  stress  of  ex- 
istence only  to  be  guessed  at.  For  all  her 
simple  and  worn  dress  (all  black)  and  the 
echo  of  brogue  in  her  speech,  she  bore  her- 
self with  a  certain  native  dignity  and  con- 
fidence. 

"  It 's  good  ye  've  been  to  me,  and  I  '11 
not  know  how  to  thank  you,  now  that  I  '11 
be  going,"  she  said,  and  the  silken-soft  voice 
with  its  touch  of  accent  won  the  Bonnie 
Lassie's  soft  and  wise  heart  from  the  first. 

"  But  you  're  not  to  go  yet,"  protested 
the  latter.  "  You  must  stay  until  you  're 
well.  And  then  1  want  to  sculp  you,  if 
you  '11  let  me.  I  'm  an  artist,  and  I  think 
you  would  make  a  wonderful  model." 

"  It 's  kind  ye  are,"  returned  the  other. 
"  But  how  can  I  be  beholden  ? " 

"  You  won't  be.  It 's  you  that  will  be 
doing  the  favor.  As  soon  as  you  're  well 
enough  —  " 

279 


Our  Square 

"  I  'm  well  enough  now.  There  's  noth- 
ing the  matter  with  me."  But  her  voice 
was  without  life  or  hope. 

So,  in  many  slow  sittings,  the  Bonnie 
Lassie  sculped  Molly  Dunstan ;  and  from 
those  sittings  grew  the  heart-moving 
bronze,  "The  Broken  Wing,"  a  figure 
of  a  quaintly,  pitifully  birdlike  woman  in 
the  foreground  of  a  group  in  a  hospital 
clinic,  with  the  verdict  of  science  written 
in  her  face,  looking  out  upon  life  in  the 
dread  realization  of  helplessness.  As  the 
work  progressed  the  heart  of  Molly  Dun- 
stan opened  little  by  little,  and  her  story 
came  out. 

While  a  young  girl  in  a  good  Irish  school 
she  had  met  a  traveling  American,  Henry 
Dunstan,  and,  half  for  love  and  half  in  the 
elfin  Irish  spirit  of  adventurousness,  had  run 
away  with  him.  He  was  a  good  husband  to 
her,  and  they  were  happy  in  a  little  country 
place  which  he  had  bought  and  which  she 
turned  to  skillful  account,  raising  ducks 
280 


The  Meanest  Man 


and  chickens  for  the  market  to  eke  out  his 
income  —  "  until  the  drink  took  him."  It 
took  him  the  full  length  of  its  well-beaten 
path,  from  debt  to  ruin ;  from  ruin  to 
broken  will  and  health,  and  presently  to 
death.  When  his  debts  were  cleared  up  the 
place  was  gone,  and  the  little  widow  had 
a  scant  two  thousand  dollars  of  his  life 
insurance  in  the  bank.  Being  sturdy,  able, 
and  courageous,  she  had  come  to  New 
York,  had  found  some  fine  sewing  to  do, 
and  had  maintained  herself,  always  with 
the  idea  of  getting  back  into  the  country 
and  to  her  poultry  raising,  which  she  loved. 
Here  the  simple  story  came  to  a  full  stop 
with  the  words :  "So  I  bought  a  bit  of 
a  place,  and  they  took  it  away  from  me.'* 

"Who  took  it  away  from  you?"  asked 
the  Bonnie  Lassie. 

"  Mr.  Wiggett,"  replied  Molly,  and  fell 
into  such  a  fit  of  shuddering  that  the  Bon- 
nie Lassie  forebore  to  question  her  further 
concerning  the  transaction. 
281 


Our  Square 


Little  by  little,  however,  there  came  out 
bits  of  information  which  the  Bonnie  Las- 
sie deftly  wove  together,  with  the  eventual 
result  that  Cyrus  the  Gaunt  looked  up  an 
advertisement  in  a  certain  newspaper  fa- 
mous for  its  traps  and  pitfalls,  and  paid  a 
visit  to  the  office,  on  St.  Mark's  Place, 
of  "  D.  Wiggett  &  Co.,  City  and  Sub- 
urban Real  Estate."  He  returned  much 
depressed,  declaring  that  the  laws  against 
homicide  ought  to  provide  for  exceptions 
in  the  case  of  such  persons  as  D.  Wiggett. 

"  There  he  sat  and  grinned,  a  great, 
plump,  pink,  powerful,  smirking  gorilla ; 
and  said  that  the  transaction  with  Mrs. 
Dunstan  was  perfectly  legal  —  perfectly 
—  and  there  was  n't  anything  further  to  be 
said." 

"  Did  you  say  it  ? "  inquired  the  Bonnie 
Lassie,  who  knew  her  Cyrus. 

"I  did.  And  he  threatened  to  have 
me  arrested  for  defamatory  language.  But 
he  's  right  —  legally.  He 's  got  your  little 
282 


The  Meanest  Man 


widow's  two  thousand  dollars,  every  cent 
of  it,  and  she 's  got  a  piece  of  stamped 
paper." 

"  Why  is  n't  it  a  case  for  our  Legal 
Aid?" 

"  I  Ve  just  been  to  Merrivale.  There 
is  n't  a  thing  to  be  done."  Following  the 
"  Legal  Aid  "  line,  Cyrus's  mind  took  a  sud- 
den but  logical  jump.  "  I  never  expected 
to  meet  a  meaner  cuss  than  the  Meanest 
Man  in  Our  Square,"  he  observed.  "  But 
I  have." 

"The  very  thing!"  cried  the  Bonnie 
Lassie.  "  How  clever  of  you,  Cyrus !  1 
mean,  how  clever  of  me  !  Molly  wants  a 
place.  She 's  all  over  that  foolish  suicide 
notion.  She  shall  be  Mr.  Miles  Morse's 
housekeeper." 

"  But  he  wanted  an  old  woman,"  ob- 
jected Cyrus. 

"How  is  he  to  tell  if  he  never  sees 
her  ?  I  '11  manage  that,"  retorted  his  wife 
confidently.  "  The  only  thing  is,  will  she 
283 


Our  Square 


take  a  place  that  is  almost  like  domestic 
service?" 

As  to  this  Molly  made  not  the  slightest 
difficulty.  She  had  regained  her  courage 
and  her  Irish  fighting  spirit,  and  she  was 
now  ready  to  face  life  and  make  it  give  her 
an  honest  return  for  honest  work  again ; 
ready  for  anything,  indeed,  except  an  at- 
tempt to  get  her  money  back  which  might 
involve  her  seeing  Mr.  D.  Wiggett.  At  the 
mere  mention  of  his  name  she  fell  into  a 
cold  and  shuddering  silence. 

With  brief  preliminaries,  and  on  the 
Bonnie  Lassie's  guarantee  of  "old  Mrs. 
Dunstan's "  reliability,  that  semi-mythi- 
cal person  was  installed  as  Miles  Morse's 
housekeeper  and  general  factotum,  having 
taken  the  informal  triple  oath  of  her  em- 
ployment: industry,  senility,  and  invisi- 
bility. Six  dollars  a  week  was  the  wage 
which  the  Goddess  from  the  Machine  had 
wrung  from  the  Meanest  Man's  violent 
protests,  with  a  warning  that  it  would  have 
284 


"The  Meanest  Man 


to  be  increased  later  on.  The  instructions 
given  to  the  new  employee  were  that  she 
was  to  keep  out  of  her  employer's  sight; 
or  if  he  should  arrive  at  an  untimely  hour 
she  was  to  huddle  into  a  shawl  or  hand- 
kerchief and  conceal  her  age  behind  a 
toothache. 

For  six  weeks  all  went  well  and  simply. 
Miles  Morse  was  obliged  to  confess,  grudg- 
ingly, that  his  house  was  more  livable  and 
comfortable.  Dust  disappeared.  The  fur- 
niture took  to  arranging  itself  with  less 
stiffness  and  more  amiability.  When  he 
gave  a  whist  party  of  an  evening,  the  cigars 
were  in  place,  the  ash  trays  ready,  the 
rooms  aired  and  fresh,  and  the  ice  box 
stocked,  all  by  invisible  hands.  Orders 
were  issued  and  requisitions  made  through 
the  Bonnie  Lassie.  Meeting  her  neighbor 
in  Our  Square  one  day,  the  Bonnie  Lassie 
hinted  at  the  ten-dollar  check  for  the  Legal 
Aid  Society.  "  When  I  'm  sure  I  'm  sat- 
isfied," said  the  Meanest  Man,  bending 
285 


Our  Square 

frowning  brows  from  above  his  owlish 
glasses  upon  her.  "  D'  you  know  what  that 
old  hag  has  been  up  to  ?" 

"What  old  hag?"  inquired  the  Bonnie 
Lassie  unguardedly. 

"  The  Dunstan  woman." 

"Oh,  you've  seen  her,  then?" 

"  Not  to  speak  of.  She  was  curled  up 
like  a  worm,  and  had  her  face  swathed 
up  like  a  harem,  and  talked  like  the  croak 
of  a  frog.  And  she  's  been  putting  flowers 
on  my  breakfast  table,"  he  concluded  with 
the  accents  of  one  detailing  an  intolerable 
outrage. 

"What  of  it?"  inquired  the  surprised 
agent. 

"  What  of  it !  Flowers  cost  money,  don't 
they?" 

"  Have  you  received  any  bill  for  flowers 
yet?" 

"  I  've  received  bills  for  brooms,  mops, 
pails,  towels,  cups,  plates,  nails,  tacks,  pic- 
ture hangers,  baking  tins,  soap,  and  God 
286 


The  Meanest  Man 


knows  what  all,"  replied  Mr.  Morse  in  a 
breathless  and  ferocious  voice. 

"  Yes  ?  And  which  of  those  do  you  find 
in  the  floral  catalogues?"  queried  the  Bon- 
nie Lassie  interestedly.  "If  you  want  to 
know,"  she  added  as  the  Meanest  Man 
struggled  for  competent  utterance,  "  those 
flowers  came  from  your  own  back  yard. 
Look  at  it  some  time.  You  '11  be  pleased." 

The  Meanest  Man  was  pleased  when 
he  looked,  so  pleased  that  one  fresh  and 
glorious  June  day  when  he  should  by  the 
known  regimen  of  his  life  have  been  at 
the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  (supposedly  reading)  he 
came  home  early  to  putter  about  among 
the  pansies.  At  the  moment  of  his  arrival 
Molly  Dunstan,  her  work  finished  and  her 
shawl  laid  aside,  was  standing  in  her  neat, 
close-fitting  black  dress,  inside  the  area 
railing,  brooding  with  deep  eyes  over  the 
glad  flush  of  summer  which  glorified  Our 
Square,  and  thinking,  if  the  unromantic 
truth  must  be  told,  of  the  little  place  up 
287 


Our  Square 


near  White  Plains  where  her  ducks  and 
chickens  would  have  been  so  happy  and 
productive  if  D.  Wiggett  (she  shivered) 
had  n't  kept  the  place  and  her  money  too. 
The  owner  of  the  house  stood  regarding 
her  with  surprise  and  disfavor.  "  What  are 
you  doing  here?"  he  barked. 

With  a  startled  jump,  Molly  came  out 
of  her  brown  study  and  returned  the  nat- 
ural but  undiplomatic  answer :  "I'm  the 
housekeeper." 

"  You !  What  has  become  of  Mrs.  Dun- 
stan?" 

"  I  'm  Mrs.  Dunstan."  Realization  of 
her  self-betrayal  came  to  her.  The  soft 
tears  welled  up  into  her  soft  eyes.  "  Oh, 
dear;  oh,  dear!"  she  mourned. 

"Don't  make  that  noise,"  he  ordered  tes- 
tily ;  "  what's  the  matter  with  the  woman ! " 

"  Ye '11  not — not  be  wanting  me  here 
any  more." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  say  that,"  returned  the 
cautious  Mr.  Morse.  "You're  not  wholly 
288 


Meanest  Man 


unsatisfactory.    But  what  does  that  mum- 
mery of  an  old  woman  mean  ? ' ' 

In  vain  Molly  tried  to  penetrate  the  blue 
glasses  which  masked  his  expression.  Any- 
way, his  voice  had  mollified.  "  I  '11  tell  ye 
it  all,  if  ye  '11  listen,"  she  said  wistfully. 

Miles  Morse  surprised  himself  by 
promptly  saying :  "  I  '11  listen." 

No  one  could  have  wished  a  more  in- 
tent listener.  Molly  told  it  all,  including 
the  deal  whereby  D.  Wiggett  had  secured 
her  money.  At  the  conclusion  her  em- 
ployer suggested  that  Molly  bring  him  the 
deed,  or  other  documents  in  the  case,  on 
the  morrow.  She  did  so.  He  read  the  prin- 
cipal document  with  a  queer  tightening  of 
the  lips  which  Molly  could  n't  understand 
at  all,  but  which  the  Bonnie  Lassie,  had 
she  been  present,  would  have  interpreted 
readily  enough  since  she  had  seen  it  on  an- 
other occasion,  when  the  spare  and  arid 
man  had  set  out  to  trail  the  horse-flaying 
teamster  to  justice. 

289 


Our  Square 


"  This  is  n't  a  deed  at  all,"  said  he. 

«  That 's  what  Mr.  Wiggett  was  telling 
me." 

"What  else  did  he  tell  you  ? " 

"  He  told  me  if  I  'd  pay  him  the  two 
thousand  dollars  and  would  go  out  there 
he'd  see  I  got  enough  embroidery  work 
so  that  I  could  easily  make  the  twenty- 
dollar-a-month  payments  till  I  owned  it 
all." 

"  He  did  n't  tell  you  that  if  you  failed 
in  a  payment  you  'd  lose  it  all  ?" 

«  Not  till  after." 

"  It 's  here  in  the  agreement  to  sell. 
That's  all  this  paper  is";  —  he  flecked  the 
document  with  a  contemptuous  ringer  — 
"  an  agreement  to  sell ;  not  a  deed.  You've 
bought  nothing  but  empty  print.  Did  you 
never  read  this  ?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "  I  trusted  Mr. 
Wiggett.  He  seemed  so  kind  and  helpful 
at  first." 

"  Until  the  fly  was  in  his  web.  You 
290 


'The  Meanest  Man 


signed  that  paper  without  knowing  what 
you  were  undertaking,"  he  accused.  "Did 
you  know  that  you  were  promising  to  pay 
taxes,  interest,  and  insurance  on  the  build- 
ings?" 

"  No,"  said  Molly  Dunstan  meekly. 

"  And  to  keep  the  buildings  in  good  re- 
pair and  painted  ?  What  buildings  were 
they  ? " 

"  A  house  and  a  barn.  They  leaked." 

"  Naturally.  Also  "  —  Miles  Morse  re- 
ferred to  the  document  in  his  hand  —  "  'to 
plant  a  good,  live  California  privet  hedge 
and  to  entertain  the  same.'  What's  your 
notion  of  a  California  privet  hedge  and 
entertaining  the  same  ?  Could  you  do 
that?" 

Into  Molly  Dunstan's  Irish-brown  eyes 
there  crept  a  little  Irish  devil  of  a  twinkle. 
"Could  I  not!"  said  she.  "Can  ye  not 
see  me,  of  a  moonlight  night,  taking  me 
foot  in  me  hand,  and  going  out  to  enter- 
tain me  dull  and  lonely  hedge  with  a  turn 
291 


Our  Square 

of  Kilkenny  jigging  ! "  Her  sole  tapped 
the  ground  as  she  spoke. 

"  Don't  do  it  here/'  he  interposed  hastily. 
"  How  you  can  joke  about  it  is  beyond 
me,  with  your  two  thousand  dollars  in  the 
pocket  of  D.  Wiggett.  And  what  makes 
you  look  sick  at  the  name  of  him  ?"  he 
concluded  sharply. 

"  That 's  a  terrible  man,"  she  answered 
with  a  catch  of  the  breath.  "  When  I  went 
to  him  to  ask  for  a  bit  more  time  he  swore 
at  me.  He  threatened  me  with  jail.  He 
said  he  'd  ruin  my  reputation.  He  said  if 
I  sent  a  lawyer  there  he  'd  hammer  him  to 
pulp.  He  could  do  it,  for  he  's  a  terrible, 
big,  strong,  angry  man.  I  came  away  sick 
to  live  in  the  same  world  with  him.  And 
that 's  why  I  got  the  carbolic,"  she  finished 
in  a  low,  shamed  tone. 

"  Carbolic !  You  were  going  to  kill 
yourself? " 

"Didn't  Mrs.  Staten  tell  ye?" 

"  She  told  me  nothing  —  but  lies." 
292 


The  Meanest  Man 


Miles  Morse  spoke  harshly  because  he  was 
experiencing  within  himself  a  stir  of  strange 
and  wrathful  and  protective  emotion.  Ab- 
ruptly he  changed  the  subject.  "  Would 
you,'*  he  said  hesitantly,  "  for  a  raise  of 
wa  —  ahem  —  salary,  come  a  little  earlier 
and  get  me  my  breakfast  ?  " 

"  I  '11  not  wait  on  table,"  she  returned 
with  a  flash  of  color. 

"  It  was  not  my  idea,"  he  said  quite 
humbly.  "  But  if  you  would  have  a  coffee 
machine  and  a  toaster  and  sit  opposite  at 
the  table,  and  —  and  —  it  would  save  me 
money  as  against  the  restaurant,"  he  added 
lamely. 

"  I  '11  consult  my  manager,"  returned 
his  housekeeper  with  a  twinkle. 

The  gist  of  her  consultation  with  the 
Bonnie  Lassie  bore  upon  the  point  as  to 
whether  Our  Square,  which  was  already 
adopting  her  since  she  had  rented  a  little 
room  there,  would  regard  the  new  basis  as 
proper. 

293 


Our  Square 


"  That  old  thing !  "  said  the  arbitress 
of  destinies  scornfully.  "  He  's  a  hundred 
years  old,  and  he  'II  be  two  hundred,  I  'm 
afraid,"  she  added  ruefully,  "  before  I  get 
that  check  out  of  him." 

Molly  looked  dubious.  "  I  'm  not  sure 
he  's  so  old,"  she  said.  "  And  I  'm  sure 
he 's  not  so  mean  as  people  think  him. 
But  I  do  need  the  money." 

Behold,  then,  Mrs.  Molly  Dunstan, 
housekeeper,  seated  opposite  Miles  Morse, 
the  Meanest  Man  in  Our  Square,  with  a 
coffee  apparatus,  a  toaster,  and  a  little  cen- 
terpiece bright  with  flowers,  both  of  them 
breakfasting  in  a  dim  and  painful  silence. 
But  food  is  a  great  solvent  of  embarrass- 
ment, and  breakfast  coffee  has  powers  be- 
yond the  spirit  of  grape,  corn,  or  rye,  to 
break  down  the  barriers  between  human 
and  human.  So  that,  by  the  end  of  a  week, 
Molly  was  chattering  like  a  cheery  bird 
with  just  enough  instigation  from  her  em- 
ployer to  keep  her  going.  One  subject  was 
294 


The  Meanest  Man 


tacitly  tabooed  as  a  kill-joy;  to  wit,  the 
devil  as  embodied  by  Mr.  D.  Wiggett  and 
all  his  works. 

Not  that  Miles  Morse  had  forgotten. 
Quite  the  contrary.  But  he  was  a  calcu- 
lating, careful,  and  meticulous  person, 
prone  to  plan  out  every  step  before  taking 
it.  On  a  Monday  morning  some  six  weeks 
after  Molly's  installation  as  a  breakfast 
fixture  he  spoke  abruptly :  "  I  've  been  up 
there." 

"  Where  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  To  the  place  you  thought  you  'd 
bought.  It 's  a  trap." 

"I'm  out  of  it,  at  least  with  my  life." 

"  You  are  not  the  only  one  that's  been 
caught.  He's  fleeced  four  others  that  I 
know  of  on  that  plant  —  all  perfectly  legal. 
I  have  a  notion,"  said  Miles  Morse  with 
an  effect  of  choosing  his  words,  "that 
D.  Wiggett  &  Co.  was  incorporated  in 
hell,  and  the  silent  partner  is  his  Satanic 
Majesty." 

295 


Our  Square 


"  Why  did  ye  go  up  there  ?" 

"  Curiosity." 

"  Not  kindness  — just  a  little  bit  ? " 

"  I  wanted  to  see  the  work  of  a  man 
meaner  than  the  Meanest  Man  in  Our 
Square,"  he  said  with  a  sour  grin. 

Molly  Dunstan  flushed. 

"  I  'd  not  be  letting  them  call  me  that! " 
she  declared.  "  And  I  '11  not  believe  it 
true  of  ye."  This  was,  indeed,  an  advance 
upon  the  dim  realm  of  personal  relation- 
ship, but  Molly's  loyal  Irish  blood  was  up. 
"  What  ails  ye  at  the  world,  at  all ! "  she 
demanded. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  since  you  ask,"  he  re- 
replied  defiantly.  "  I  'm  getting  even  with 
it  for  treating  me  like  a  dog." 

"  So  that 's  it."  There  was  a  pause. 
"  Would  ye  tell  me  about  it !  "  she  asked 
shyly.  • 

Much  to  his  astonishment,  Miles  Morse 
discovered  that  he  wanted  to  tell  her  about 
it.  Quite  to  his  chagrin,  he  found  that  it 
296 


The  Meanest  Man 


didn't  seem  a  very  convincing  indictment, 
when  he  tried  to  formulate  it.  ^However, 
he  did  his  best. 

"  A  man  that  I  thought  my  friend 
cheated  me  out  of  the  first  ten  thousand 
dollars  that  I  made." 

"  Whish  !  Ye  made  more,  did  n't  ye  ? " 
she  replied  calmly.  "  I  would  n't  be  hating 
the  world  for  that." 

"Then  there  was  a  woman,"  he  said 
with  more  difficulty.  "I  thought — she 
made  me  believe  she  cared  for  me.  I  was 
young.  She  got  me  into  a  fake  stock  propo- 
sition with  some  confederates,  and  they 
fleeced  me." 

"Whoof!"  Molly  blew  an  imaginary 
thistledown  from  her  dainty  fingers.  «'  She 
was  a  light  thing.  'T  was  your  bank  ac- 
count she  hurt,  not  your  heart." 

Suddenly  Miles  Morse  realized  that  this 
was  so.  It  wasn't  wholly  pleasant,  how- 
ever, to  have  his  cherished  grudges  thus 
lightly  dismissed. 

297 


Our  Square 

"  There  's  nothing  else  worth  speaking 
of,"  he  said,  a  bit  sullenly,  "except  a  bit 
of  boy's  silliness  that  you  'd  laugh  at." 

"Tell  it  to  me." 

"  It  was  when  I  was  seven  years  old  and 
we  lived  in  the  country.  My  father  was  a 
hard  sort  of  man ;  he  saw  no  sense  in  play 
or  such  nonsense,  and  when  Fourth  of  July 
came  he  'd  give  me  no  fireworks  nor  let  me 
draw  any  of  my  little  money  out  of  the 
bank.  All  the  other  boys  had  firecrackers 
but  me.  So  I  got  a  spool  and  filled  it  with 
sand  and  put  a  bit  of  string  in  it  and  I 
lighted  the  end.  When  it  didn't  go  off  I 
ran  away  and  hid  and  felt  pretty  bad.  I  've 
always  laid  that  up  against  things.  Foolish, 
is  n't  it !  " 

The  little  woman  opposite  lifted  eyes 
which  had  grown  suddenly  bright  and  soft 
with  a  disturbing  hint  of  tears.  "  Ye  poor 
lamb  !  "  she  said. 

"  Tut-tut !  "  gruffly  retorted  the  Mean- 
est Man  in  Our  Square,  who  had  never 
298 


The  Meanest  Man 


before  been  called  a  poor  lamb.  He  spoke 
without  conviction. 

"  But  that  should  n't  make  ye  hate 
the  world,"  argued  Molly  earnestly.  "  It 
should  only  make  ye  hate  what's  mean  and 
unfair  in  the  world." 

"Well,  there's  D.  Wiggett,"  replied 
the  other  hopefully.  "  I  think  I  could 
learn  to  hate  him.  In  fact,  I  think  I  '11 
make  a  trial  of  it  by  calling  on  him  to- 
day." 

"  Oh,  don't  do  that,"  she  implored  trem- 
ulously. "  He  '11  do  ye  harm.  He  's  a  terri- 
ble man,  and  twice  the  size  of  ye  !  " 

"  This  will  be  a  strictly  peaceable  er- 
rand," he  averred,  meaning  what  he  said. 

By  no  means  reassured,  Molly  Dunstan 
made  her  way,  at  the  hour  when  she 
thought  that  her  employer  would  call  upon 
D.  Wiggett  &  Co.,  to  a  spot  in  St.  Mark's 
Square  which  gave  her  a  good  view  of  the 
real-estate  office.  After  an  hour's  wait,  de- 
voted to  the  most  dismal  forebodings,  she 
299 


Our  Square 

saw  her  employer  stride  around  the  corner 
and  enter  the  door.  Had  she  actually  sum- 
moned the  nerve  to  interpose,  as  she  had 
vaguely  designed  to  do,  there  was  no  time. 
Her  brief  and  alarmed  glimpse  of  Miles 
Morse  had  oppressed  her  with  a  quality 
hitherto  unknown  in  him.  He  was  clad  in 
his  accustomed  neat  and  complete  black, 
even  to  the  black  string  tie.  His  big  blue 
glasses  were  set  as  solemnly  level  as  usual 
upon  his  ample  nose.  His  spare  figure  was 
held  stiffly  erect,  in  its  characteristic  atti- 
tude. But  there  was  something  about  the 
way  he  walked  which  suggested  an  arrow 
going  to  keep  an  important  engagement 
with  a  bull's-eye. 

Three  minutes  later  Mr.  Miles  Morse 
emerged. 

He  emerged  by  force  and  arms  ;  a  great 
deal  of  the  former  and  a  large  number 
of  the  latter.  To  the  terrified  watcher 
there  seemed  to  be  at  least  half  a  dozen 
tangled  persons  engaged  in  the  eviction  of 
300 


The  Meanest  Man 


Mr.  Morse,  of  whom  D.  Wiggett  was  not 
one.  Having  propelled  the  unwelcome 
guest  out  upon  the  stoop,  the  persons  with- 
drew in  pell-mell  haste,  and  the  sound  of 
a  door  being  violently  barred  after  them 
eloquently  testified  to  their  distaste  for  any 
more  of  Mr.  Morse's  society.  That  gen- 
tleman descended  the  steps  as  one  who 
walks  upon  the  clouds,  albeit  with  a  con- 
siderable limp. 

Molly  ran  to  meet  him.  Five  yards  away 
she  stopped  dead,  lifting  dismayed  hands 
to  heaven.  Mr.  Morse  was  a  strange  and 
moving  sight.  A  small  stream  of  blood 
was  trickling  from  the  corner  of  his  mouth, 
which  was  expanded  in  an  astounding  and 
joyous  smile.  His  sober  black  string  neck- 
tie was  festooned  over  his  left  ear.  Half 
of  his  large,  solemn  blue  spectacles  was 
jammed  down  his  neck  inside  a  dislocated 
collar;  the  other  half  presented  a  scandal- 
ous and  sightless  appearance,  having  lost 
its  lens.  His  coat  was  split  in  three  places 
301 


Our  Square 

and  torn  in  one.  His  hat  simply  was 
not ;  it  could  be  identified  as  a  hat  solely 
from  the  circumstance  that  it  was  jammed 
inextricably  down  upon  his  head.  From 
his  right  cheek  bone  there  had  already 
sprouted  a  "  hickey  "  fit  to  hang  a  bucket 
on.  But  these  were  minor  injuries  com- 
pared to  the  condition  of  Mr.  Morse's 
hands.  Bruised  and  cut,  scarified,  scalped, 
and  swelling,  the  "  grand  pair  of  hands  " 
which  Terry  the  Cop  so  admired,  testified 
unmistakably  to  having  come  into  violent 
and  repeated  contact  with  some  heavy 
and  hard  object.  Horror-stricken,  Molly 
turned  her  eyes  from  them  to  the  real- 
estate  office  of  D.  Wiggett  &  Co.  A 
front  window  flew  up.  The  countenance 
of  D.  Wiggett  appeared  therein,  and  Molly 
at  once  identified  it  as  the  heavy  and  hard 
object  to  which  her  employer's  manual 
plight  was  due.  The  countenance  opened, 
somewhat  slantwise,  and  sent  forth  a  gasp- 
ing and  melancholy  bellow :  "  Police  !  " 
302 


The  Meanest  Man 


Without  a  word,  Molly  seized  one  of 
the  battered  hands  and  ran.  Perforce,  her 
employer  ran  with  her.  A  taxi  was  prowl- 
ing up  Second  Avenue.  Mollie  hailed  it. 

On  the  trip  Mr.  Miles  Morse  exhibited 
silent  but  alarming  symptoms.  Arrived  at 
home,  he  flatly  refused  to  enter.  "  Air  and 
space,"  he  said,  were  his  special  and  im- 
mediate needs.  He  made  his  way  to  the 
most  secluded  bench  in  the  park,  followed 
by  his  dismayed  housekeeper,  sat  down, 
and  began  to  chuckle.  The  chuckle  grew 
into  a  laugh,  the  laugh  into  a  series  of 
chokes,  the  chokes  into  a  protracted  con- 
vulsion of  mirth.  When  at  length  it  had 
passed,  leaving  him  spent  and  gasping, 
Molly  Dunstan  spoke  seriously  to  him. 

"Are  ye  finished?" 

"I  am." 

"  Have  ye  been  drinking  ? " 

"  I  have  not." 

"What  did  ye  do  to  him?" 

"  I  did    everything,"    said    Mr.    Miles 

3°3 


Our  Square 


Morse  with  a  long  reminiscent  sigh  of 
utter  satisfaction,  "  but  bite  him." 

"  Ye  told  me,"  accused  Molly  with  heav- 
ing bosom,  "  that  it  would  be  a  strictly 
peaceable  errand." 

"  So  it  would,"  replied  the  other  calmly, 
"  if  he  had  n't  said  something  about  you." 

Molly's  brown  eyes  widened  and  bright- 
ened with  amazement.  Her  lips  parted. 
"  About  me  !  "  she  said.  Then  she  com- 
mitted what  the  lawyers  call  a  non  sequitur. 
"  Mother  of  all  the  Saints  !  "  cried  Molly. 
"How  old  are  ye?" 

"  Thirty-seven  years  and  four  months," 
replied  the  Meanest  Man  in  Our  Square 
gravely. 

"  And  me  thinking  —  "  He  never  found 
out  what  she  was  thinking,  for  she  broke  off 
abruptly,  and  said :  "Clap  a  bit  of  raw  beef 
to  that  cheek,"  and  vanished  from  his  sight. 

No  Molly  appeared  for  breakfast  in  the 
morning.  In  her  stead  arrived  a  court  offi- 
cer with  a  warrant  in  which  the  term 

3°4 


"The  Meanest  Man 


"  feloniously  "  played  a  conspicuous  and 
dispiriting  part.  At  court  Miles  Morse, 
prisoner,  found  a  delegation  from  Our 
Square  awaiting  him,  including  Molly, 
Cyrus  the  Gaunt,  the  Bonnie  Lassie,  Terry 
the  Cop,  and  Inky  Mike,  the  tipster  dis- 
guised in  a  clean  collar  and  taking  copious 
notes  with  an  absorbed  and  ferocious  ex- 
pression, with  a  view  to  daunting  wrong- 
doers by  the  prospective  fierce  white  light 
of  the  Press.  This  was  part  of  the  Bonnie 
Lassie's  strategy.  So  also  was  the  presence 
of  Merrivale,  the  young  lawyer  of  the  Le- 
gal Aid  branch,  for  the  Bonnie  Lassie  had 
correctly  guessed  that  the  accused  would 
disdain  to  spend  money  on  a  lawyer.  As 
he  awaited  his  turn  at  the  bar  of  judgment 
(before  Wolf  Tone  Hanrahan,  the  Human 
Judge,  his  friends  remarked  with  satisfac- 
tion) Terry  the  Cop  caught  sight  of  his 
damaged  knuckles.  "  I  always  said  he  had 
a  grand  pair  of  hands,"  murmured  Terry 
to  the  Bonnie  Lassie. 

305 


Our  Square 


"  And  here  they  are  in  court,  where 
you  said  they  were  at  their  best,"  she  com- 
mented. 

An  expression  of  bewilderment  gave 
place  to  a  grin  on  Terry's  handsome  face. 
"  The  court,"  I  said,  "  the  hand-ball  court 
at  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  He  packs  a  wallop  in 
either  hand  'ud  kill  a  bull." 

Then  the  plaintiff  came  in,  and  there 
was  no  further  need  of  explanations. 

D.  Wiggett  was  a  horrid  sight.  He  would 
have  been  a  horrider  sight  if  he  had  n't 
been  almost  totally  obscured  by  bandages. 
The  gist  of  his  testimony  was  comprised 
in  the  frequently  repeated  word  "  murder." 

The  accused  put  in  no  defense.  In  the 
Human  Judge's  eye  were  doubt  and  inde- 
cision. Obviously  there  was  something  be- 
hind this  case.  As  he  hesitated,  the  Legal 
Aid  lawyer  came  forward  with  the  light- 
pink  document  of  D.  Wiggett  &  Co.,  and 
handed  it  to  the  judge  with  a  few  words. 
D.  Wiggett's  lawyer  entered  vehement 
306 


The  Meanest  Man 


objections.  Stilling  his  protests  with  a  wav- 
ing hand,  Magistrate  Hanrahan  read  the 
"  Agreement  to  Sell."  Then  he  called  for 
Mrs.  Molly  Dunstan.  More  objections. 
Overruled.  At  the  conclusion  of  Molly's  tes- 
timony he  turned  to  the  protesting  lawyer. 

"  Did  ye  drah  up  this  dockyment  ? " 

"  I  did,  your  honor." 

"  It 's  as  full  of  holes  as  the  witch's  cul- 
lender. Y'otta  be  disbarred  fer  it ! " 

The  lawyer  hastily  receded.  The  re- 
mains of  D.  Wiggett  were  led  forward  to 
listen  to  a  few  brief  but  pointed  dicta  by 
the  court,  while  Inky  Mike  (under  prompt- 
ings) edged  up  and  took  copious  notes  in 
a  book  such  as  no  reporter  ever  carried 
except  upon  the  stage.  At  the  end  of  the 
ordeal,  D.  Wiggett,  in  broken  and  terrified 
accents,  disclosed  that  his  motives  were  of 
spotless  purity,  that  his  document  was  a 
harmless  joke,  and  that  Mrs.  Dunstan 
could  have  the  place  and  a  deed  thereto  if 
she'd  just  make  the  payments. 

307 


Our  Square 

"  I  '11  guarantee  that,"  put  in  Cyrus  the 
Gaunt. 

"  And  I  '11  see  that  she  gets  work  to  keep 
going  on,"  added  the  Bonnie  Lassie. 

Whereupon  both  D.  Wiggett,  the  party 
of  the  first  part  (in  the  document)  and 
Mrs.  M.  Dunstan,  the  party  of  the  second 
part,  dissolved  in  tears,  though  for  very 
different  reasons.  The  court  then  pro- 
ceeded to  the  sentence  of  the  defendant. 
Judgment  was  delivered  in  two  mediums ; 
full-voiced  for  the  proper  judicial  process, 
and  sotto  voice  for  the  benefit  of  those 
most  concerned. 

"  Prisoner  at  the  Bar-r-r :  Ye  have 
brootally  assaulted  a  peaceful  citizen  (not 
more  than  half-agin  as  big  as  yerself}.  Ye 
have  bate  him  to  a  poolp  (an*  him  but  a 
scant  tin  years  younger,  an'  with  a  repitation 
for  beiri  a  roughneck — with  women  and 
childer}.  Ye  have  hafF  murdered  him  (an* 
take  shame  to  yerself  ye  didn't  do  tti  other 
hajf}.  Because  of  yer  youth  an'  inexperi- 
308 


"The  Meanest  Man 


ence  (/  mane  yer  age  an  the  wallop  ye  carry} 
I  will  let  ye  off  light  with  a  fine  of  fifty 
dollars  (an'  if  ye  V/  sind  me  word  when  yer 
gain'  to  operate  again  I'll  remit  the  Jine). 
NIXT  CA-ASE  ! " 

For  a  culprit  who  had  got  off  easy,  Mr. 
Miles  Morse  presented  far  from  a  cheer- 
ful appearance  when  Molly  Dunstan  pre- 
sented herself  on  the  following  morning. 
Molly  exhibited  strange  and  inexplicable 
symptoms,  flushing  and  paling,  finding  no 
place  for  her  regard  to  rest,  until  she  dis- 
covered that  Miles  Morse  was  much  worse 
confused  than  herself.  Thereupon,  after 
the  manner  of  women,  she  became  quite 
composed  and  easy.  Through  breakfast  he 
was  very  silent.  After  lingering  over  his 
coffee  to  an  unwonted  degree,  he  finally 
arose,  with  an  air  of  great  determination, 
said  "Well"  in  what  was  meant  to  be  a 
businesslike  tone,  walked  briskly  to  the 
door,  then  turned  and  stood  in  the  most 
awkward  unease. 

309 


Our  Square 


"  The  house  won't  be  like  a  home  with- 
out you,"  said  he  desolately. 

"Won't  it?"  said  Molly. 

"  You  '11  be  going  out  to  your  own  place 
very  soon  now  ? " 

"Suppose  I  don't  want  to." 

"  It 's  all  arranged.  I  've  been  talking  to 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Staten." 

"  Have  ye  now ! "  said  Molly  with  a 
mutinous  uptilt  of  the  chin. 

"  She  's  arranged  for  you  to  get  your  own 
kind  of  work  out  there." 

"  I  like  my  own  job  here." 

"  It 's  all  arranged,"  said  Miles  Morse 
with  dismal  iteration. 

"  Does  that  mean  I  'm  discharged  ?" 

"  If  you  want  to  put  it  that  way." 

"  And  I  'm  to  go  up  there  to  the  coun- 
try — alone  —  and  entertain  my  California 
privet  hedge  ?" 

Her  little  foot  tapped  the  ground  as  it 
had  on  the  unforgettable  occasion  of  that 
first  interview.  The  Meanest  Man  in  Our 
310 


The  Meanest  Man 


Square  winced.  Molly  saw  it,  and  her  eyes 
grew  tender,  but  her  tone  was  still  un- 
compromising. "What  am  I  discharged 
for  ? " 

Silence. 

"  For  not  being  old  enough  to  be  your 
housekeeper?"  She  looked  the  merest 
wisp  of  a  girl  with  her  color  coming  and 
going  as  she  spoke. 

He  muttered  something  undistinguish- 
able. 

"  For  not  being  ugly  enough  ?"  And  she 
contrived  to  look  bewilderingly  pretty. 

"Why  do  you  plague  me,  Molly?"  he 
burst  out. 

She  pointed  a  finger  at  his  chin.  "  I  dare 
ye,  Miles  Morse,"  she  said,  her  voice  flut- 
tering in  her  throat,  for  all  her  audacious 
words;  "I  dare  ye  to  discharge  me.  For 
all  ye  're  called  the  Meanest  Man  in  Our 
Square,  ye  would  n't  be  that  mean  as  to 
send  me  away  from  ye  !  " 

And,  with  the  finger  still  leveled,  she 

3" 


Our  Square 


walked  straight  to  him  and  was  caught 
and  held  close  to  the  sober  and  respect- 
able black  coat. 

"  I  'd  never  dared  have  asked  you, 
Molly,"  said  Miles  Morse  in  the  voice 
of  one  who  walks  ecstatic  amid  the  won- 
ders of  a  dream. 

"  Don't  I  know  that ! "  she  retorted. 
And  then,  with  a  quiver :  "  Oh,  Miles, 
it 's  I  will  make  it  up  to  you  for  that  sand- 
and-spool  firecracker ! " 

Opening  her  morning  mail  on  the  fol- 
lowing day,  the  Bonnie  Lassie  (for  whose 
schemes  and  stratagems  the  stars  in  their 
courses  fight)  gave  a  little  cry  and  let  a  bit 
of  paper  slip  through  her  fingers.  Quickly 
retrieving  it,  she  turned  it  over  to  Cyrus 
the  Gaunt.  It  was  the  promised  check  of 
Mr.  Miles  Morse  to  the  Legal  Aid  So- 
ciety. Between  the  words  "  ten  "  and  "  dol- 
lars "  was  a  caret,  and,  above,  the  added 
word  "hundred"  with  an  indorsement. 
The  signature  had  also  undergone  an  ad- 
312 


"The  Meanest  Man 


dendum.   It  now  read :  "  Miles  Morse,  per 
Mrs.  M.  M.  M." 

The  Meanest  Man  in  Our  Square  had 
abdicated. 


of  the  Housetop 

WHAT  first  struck  you  about  the 
house  was  that  it  frowned.  Not  an- 
grily, but  with  a  kind  of  dull  scorn.  Per- 
haps this  was  its  way  of  emphasizing  its 
superior  aloofness  from  the  other  houses 
in  Our  Square  which  had  gone  down  in 
the  social  scale  while  it  maintained  its  aris- 
tocracy untainted.  It  was  squat  and  broad 
and  drab,  like  the  first  Varick  who  had  built 
it,  and  the  succeeding  Varicks  who  had  in- 
herited and  dwelt  in  it  even  to  the  sixth 
and  seventh  generations.  Being  numbered 
1 3,  it  would  naturally  have  a  sinister  re- 
pute ;  and  this  was  not  improved  by  the 
two  suicides  which  had  marked  its  occu- 
pancy; suicides  not  of  despair  or  remorse 
or  fury,  but  of  cold,  grim  disgust.  Then 
there  was  the  episode  of  old  Vernam  Var- 
ick, who  dabbled  in  diabolical  mixtures  in 

3*4 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

his  secret  room  on  the  third  floor  front 
under  the  tutelage  of  no  less  an  instructor 
than  the  Devil,  and,  having  quarreled  with 
Old  Nick  over  a  moot  point  in  alchemy, 
chased  him  out  of  the  window  and  fol- 
lowed, himself,  to  the  accompaniment  of 
a  loud  and  sulphurous  detonation.  What 
became  of  His  Satanic  Majesty  has  never 
been  properly  determined,  but  old  Ver- 
nam  arrived  upon  the  pavement  in  due 
time,  crumpled  up,  and  thereafter  circu- 
lated in  a  wheeled  chair,  sniffing  about 
after  real-estate  investments  to  pass  the 
time.  He  it  was  whose  purchases  of 
uptown  property  (when  anything  above 
Forty-second  Street  was  "  uptown")  se- 
verely reprehended  by  the  rest  of  the  clan, 
subsequently  reestablished  the  Varick  for- 
tunes, piling  up  riches  beyond  the  imag- 
ination of  Our  Square.  Except  that  he  had 
more  imagination,  he  was  a  pattern  of  all 
the  Varicks,  each  broad  and  squat  of  ar- 
chitecture like  the  house  they  dwelt  in; 


Our  Square 


each,  if  possible,  more  crabbed  and  pig- 
headed and  stupidly  haughty  than  his  pred- 
ecessor. In  time,  his  son,  heritor  of  the 
qualities  of  the  breed,  grew  up  and  mar- 
ried. And  then  the  dull  generations  burst 
into  flower  in  Paula  Varick.  So  the  Varicks 
put  her  in  a  cage. 

Old  Vernam  built  the  cage  out  of  gas 
pipe  and  thick-meshed  wire  and  estab- 
lished it  on  the  roof.  From  my  front  win- 
dow, looking  diagonally  across  Our  Square, 
I  command  a  view  of  it.  How  well  I  re- 
member the  day  that  little  Paula  was  put 
into  it!  A  black-and-white-banded  nurse 
led  her  in  by  the  hand,  held  up  an  admon- 
itory finger  for  half  a  minute  of  directions, 
and  disappeared  down  the  scuttle  door, 
leaving  her  alone  in  a  remote  world.  One 
might  have  expected  the  little  girl  to  cry. 
She  did  n't.  She  set  about  playing,  like  a 
happy  little  squirrel.  Presently  there  floated 
across  the  tree-tops  a  strange  and  alien 
sound  for  that  grim  mansion  to  be  making 
316 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

—  a  sweet,  light,  joyous,  childish  piping. 
The  little  Paula  was  singing. 

Her  song  disturbed  young  Carlo  and  me 
at  our  lesson.  Carlo  was  my  one  educa- 
tional luxury.  An  assistant  professor  of  a 
forgotten  branch  of  learning,  already  in 
middle  age,  as  I  was  then,  who  ekes  out 
his  income  by  tutoring,  cannot  well  afford 
to  take  pupils  for  love.  But  Carlo's  father 
had  paid  in  the  beginning,  and,  when  he 
could  no  longer  pay,  the  boy's  vivid,  leap- 
ing imagination  and  his  passionate  love  for 
all  that  was  fine  and  true  in  reading  had 
captivated  me.  I  could  not  let  him  go.  So 
we  kept  up  the  lessons,  and  ranged  the  field 
of  the  classics,  Greek  and  Latin,  English, 
French,  and  German,  together.  He  was 
to  be  a  poet,  I  foresaw,  or  perhaps  a  dram- 
atist, and  I  believe  I  bragged  of  him  un- 
conscionably to  my  associates.  Well,  they 
are  kindly  souls  and  have  forborne  to  taunt 
the  prophet !  Carlo's  father  was  a  Northern 
Italian,  the  second  son  of  a  noble  family, 

31? 


Our  Square 

who  quarreled  with  the  head  of  the  clan 
and  came  to  this  country  and  a  top  floor  in 
Our  Square  to  paint  masterpieces,  and  sub- 
sequently died  at  three  o'clock  one  win- 
ter morning,  pressing  another  man's  coat. 
MacLachan  the  Tailor,  then  just  starting 
his  Home  of  Fashion,  had  given  him  the 
work  to  save  the  pair  from  being  evicted, 
after  their  money  gave  out.  At  the  last  the 
elder  Trentano  took  to  drink.  Then  Carlo 
got  jobs  as  a  model,  for  he  was  strong  and 
beautiful  like  a  young  woods  creature.  But 
he  let  nothing  interfere  with  our  lessons. 

Paula,  the  happy  singer,  did  interfere, 
however.  From  time  to  time  my  pupil's 
eyes  wandered  from  his  book  to  fix  them- 
selves with  a  puzzled  gaze  on  the  roof  be- 
yond the  tree-tops.  Curiosity  proved  too 
much  for  him  at  length. 

"Dominie!"  he  said. 

"Well?" 

"  Why  do  they  put  the  little  girl  in  a 
cage  ? " 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

"To  keep  her  from  falling  off  the  roof." 

"Why  do  they  put  her  on  the  roof?" 

"  To  play." 

"  Why  does  n't  she  play  in  Our  Square  ? " 

"  She  is  not  allowed  to  play  with  the 
children  in  Our  Square." 

Carlo  pondered  this.  A  theory  born  of 
temporary  local  conditions  occurred  to  him. 

"  Has  she  got  measles?" 

This  was  an  easy  way  out.  To  enlighten 
Carlo  as  to  the  reasons  why  the  descend- 
ant of  all  the  Varicks  was  not  permitted  to 
take  part  in  the  degenerated  social  activi- 
ties of  Our  Square,  would  be  to  undermine 
my  carefully  instilled  doctrine  of  the  bless- 
ings of  democracy  where  all  are  free  and 
equal.  Therefore  with  mendacious,  though 
worthy,  intent  I  answered :  — 

"  Not  measles,  exactly." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Carlo.  "  She  must  get 
lonesome." 

"  Doubtless." 

The  cheery  singing  had  ceased  now,  and 

3J9 


Our  Square 


the  child  was  busy  with  some  other  con- 
cern.  Carlo's  sharper  vision  identified  it. 

"  She  's  setting  a  tea-table." 

"Is  she?" 

"And  nobody  will  come  to  tea  at  it, 
will  they  ? " 

"  Perhaps  her  dolls." 

"  I  don't  see  any  dolls."  His  lustrous 
eyes  brooded  on  the  lonely  little  hostess. 
"  Dominie,  do  you  think  she'd  like  it  if  I 
came?" 

"Are  you  thinking  of  storming  the 
house  ? "  I  asked,  amused. 

"  That's  our  roof  there."  He  pointed  to 
a  shabby  structure  overtopping  the  squat 
Varick  domicile  by  some  ten  feet,  and 
separated  from  it  by  a  well,  four  or  five 
feet  broad.  "  I  could  lean  over  and  speak 
to  her,  could  n't  I  ? " 

"  I  hardly  think  her  family  would  ap- 
prove." 

"  Her  family  are  mean,"  declared  Carlo 
heatedly,  "  to  shut  her  up  in  a  cage." 
320 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

"  Come  back  from  the  realms  of  ro- 
mance," I  bade  him  sternly,  "  and  attend 
to  the  lesson/' 

Before  it  was  over  the  black-and-white- 
banded  nurse  had  retrieved  her  charge  and 
taken  her  below. 

Three  days  later  I  beheld  two  small 
figures  on  the  Varick  roof.  One  was  inside 
the  cage;  one  outside.  They  appeared  to 
be  engaged  in  amicable  discourse.  The 
caged  figure  was  little  Paula.  As  to  the 
free  one,  I  could  scarcely  believe  my  eyes 
which  tried  to  assure  me  that  it  was  Carlo 
Trentano.  It  had  come  about  in  this  way : 

For  two  days  rain  had  kept  the  little 
prisoner  from  the  roof.  She  was  swaying 
to  and  fro  on  a  rocking-horse,  crooning 
to  herself,  and  this  was  the  burden  of  her 
improvised  chant:  — 

"  I  wi-ish  I  had  some  one  to  play-ay-ay  wif ! 
Oh,  I  wi-ish  I  had  some  one  to  play-ay-ay  wif! 
Oh,  I  wi-ish  I  had  somebuddy  to  play-ay  wif! 
I  don't  like  to  play  all  alone  !  " 

321 


Our  Square 


Perhaps  she  had  sung  it  over  ten  or 
twelve  times  when  her  wish  materialized 
from  behind  the  broad  chimney  at  the 
rear.  She  heard  his  footfall  first  and  then 
her  sweet,  wondering  eyes  beheld  the  vis- 
itor, a  shabby,  clean,  and  marvelous  boy, 
some  years  her  elder  and  about  twice  her 
size.  Nevertheless,  with  the  superiority 
of  sex  she  immediately  addressed  him  as 
"Little  Boy/' 

"  Little  Boy,  where  did  you  come 
from?" 

"Up  there,"  replied  her  caller,  pointing. 

The  caged  one  turned  her  solemn  re- 
gard "up  there"  and  saw  a  great,  white, 
softly  rolling  mass  floating  in  a  sky  of  azure. 

"From  that?"  she  inquired. 

Carlo  considered  the  cloud  and  was 
pleased  with  it  as  a  source.  "Yes,"  he 
said. 

"  It  looks  soft  and  sleepy,"  she  observed, 
after  a  more  critical  consideration. 

They  contemplated  each  other  in  a 
322 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

silence  which  threatened  to  become  a 
deadlock,  when  he  broke  it. 

"Do  you  like  gum?"  he  asked. 

"What's  gum?" 

"  Chewing-gum,  of  course." 

"  I  don't  know  what  that  is." 

He  stared  at  her  in  utter  incredulity. 
"You  honestly  never  chewed  gum?"  A 
shake  of  the  tawny  head  answered  him. 
"Nor  ate  an  all-day  sucker?"  Another 
shake.  "Nor  played  marbles?"  Still  an- 
other mute  denial.  "  Nor  flew  kites,  nor 
pegged  the  cat,  nor  rollered  on  the  asphalt, 
nor  spun  tops  ?  "  The  questions  came  too 
fast  for  detailed  answer,  but  the  child's 
face  grew  more  and  more  dismal  as  she  was 
thus  led,  step  by  step,  to  confront  a  wasted 
life.  Her  inquisitor  drew  a  long  breath. 
"What  did  they  put  you  in  for?"  he  asked. 

"In  where?" 

"  In  that  cage." 

"  To  play."  Her  inventiveness  rose  in 
arms  to  offset  the  recondite  and  mysterious 

323 


Our  Square 

joys  which  he  had  enumerated,  and  with  it 
her  spirits.  "  I  play  I  'm  a  wild  animal. 
Gr-rr-rr-rr  !  If  I  could  get  out  I  'd  eat  you 
up,  Little  Boy." 

He  played  up  to  her.  "  I  know  what 
you  are.  You're  a  tiger.  A  big  stripy 
tiger. 

1  Tiger!  Tiger!  burning  bright  — 
In  the  forests  of  the  night ! ' " 

"Say  some  more,"  she  demanded  im- 
periously. "I  like  poetry." 

"  That 's  all  I  remember.  I  '11  tell  you ; 
I  '11  be  a  keeper,  and  I  '11  come  to  the  cage 
to  feed  you."  He  felt  in  his  pocket  and 
produced  a  fresh  stick  of  gum  which  he 
thrust  through  the  wire  meshes.  Being  a 
realist,  Paula  promptly  bit  him  on  the 
finger. 

"  Ow  !  "  he  exclaimed  and  dropped  the 
gum.  She  pounced  upon  it,  growling  fe- 
rociously. "You  play  awfully  hard,  don't 
you?"  he  observed,  caressing  the  mark  of 
a  sharp  little  tooth. 

324 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

"  You  have  to  when  you  don't  have 
anybody  but  yourself  to  play  with,  or  it 
is  n't  real,"  replied  the  child  with  uncon- 
scious pathos.  "  Now  I  'm  going  to  eat 
this  all  up  !" 

"  Don't  swallow  it,"  he  warned.  "You 
just  chew  it.  It's  gum." 

"  Um-m-m ! "  mumbled  the  Tiger  ap- 
preciatively. "  I  like  it.  I  like  you.  When 
do  you  have  to  go  back  to  your  cloud?" 
She  looked  up  apprehensively  at  that 
fleecy  domicile  which  was  moving  rapidly 
away. 

"Oh,  any  time.  No,  I'll  tell  you," 
he  added  confidentially ;  "  I  did  n't  really 
come  from  the  cloud.  I  came  from  that 
roof  up  there." 

"How?" 

"Down  a  rope." 

"  Did  you  ?  I  like  that  almost  as  well. 
Where  did  you  get  the  rope?" 

"  It  was  over  the  fire  escape.  I  live  on 
the  top  floor  there." 


Our  Square 

"S'posen  you'd  fall  right  down  between 
the  two  houses,"  surmised  the  little  Tiger. 

"Then  I  'd  be  killed."  This,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  was  highly  probable.  But  Carlo, 
like  most  of  the  highland  Italians,  was 
strong,  supple,  and  daring;  ingenious, 
too,  for  he  had  made  loops  in  his  rope  to 
help  him  climb  up  again. 

Paula  the  Tiger  was  now  considering 
cognate  matters  with  appropriate  gravity. 
"  I  think  I  'd  rather  have  you  live  in  the 
cloud/'  she  decided.  "Angels  live  in 
clouds.  If  you  're  an  angel,  you  won't  fall 
and  get  killed,"  she  continued,  finding  a 
kindly  refuge  in  theology.  "  I  'd  rather 
have  you  an  angel." 

"  All  right.   I  '11  be  an  angel,"  he  agreed. 

"Nurse  doesn't  let  me  play  with  little 
boys  and  girls.  Maybe  she  would  n't  let 
me  play  with  an  angel  either.  I  think 
you  'd  better  come  when  nurse  is  n't  here. 
When  will  you  come  again,  Angel?" 

"To-morrow." 

326 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

"  Must  I  give  back  the  nice  gum  ? "  she 
asked  anxiously. 

"  No.  But  you  'd  better  leave  it  in  your 
cage.  Grown-ups  don't  like  gum  around," 
he  instructed  her  with  precocious  worldly 
wisdom. 

"Thank   you,   Angel.    Good-bye,   An- 

gel." 

"Good-bye,  little  girl/* 

"  Gr-rr-rr-rr ! "  The  growl  was  a  savage 
reminder  of  the  dramatic  proprieties. 

Carlo  was  quick  of  apprehension. 
"  Good-bye,  Tiger,"  he  amended.  And  the 
Tiger  purred. 

Often  thereafter  I  saw  them,  at  the  hour 
when  the  banded  nurse  took  her  outing, 
playing  together  on  opposite  sides  of  the 
barrier.  Many,  various,  and  ingenious  were 
the  diversions  which  Carlo  the  free  found 
to  amuse  the  captivity  of  Paula  the  caged. 
There  were  delightful  things  to  be  con- 
trived out  of  knotted  strings,  in  which 
Carlo  was  of  incomparable  skill.  He  in- 


Our  Square 

vented  a  game  of  marbles  which  could  be 
played  by  opponents  on  different  sides  of 
a  twelve-foot  steel  mesh;  an  abstruse  pas- 
time, but  apparently  interesting,  since  it 
developed  into  an  almost  daily  contest  in 
which,  to  judge  from  the  joyous  prancings 
about  the  cage  at  the  conclusion,  she  was 
invariably  allowed  to  win.  Also,  there  were 
gifts  of  candy  shared,  and  the  delights  of 
the  chase  with  a  bean-shooter  for  weapon 
and  the  indignant  sparrows  for  quarry,  and 
instructions  in  the  principles  of  kinetic 
stasis  as  exemplified  by  the  rotary  or  spin- 
ning top.  All  of  which  was  doubtless  very 
wicked  and  deceitful  and  clandestine,  and, 
being  so,  should  have  been  stopped  by  a 
word  from  me  before  disaster  could  come. 
For,  any  day,  Carlo  might  slip  from  that 
swaying  rope  and  break  his  precious  neck. 
Or  the  Varicks  might  learn  of  what  was 
going  on  above  their  heads,  and  banish 
the  little  Tiger  from  her  happy  cage,  or 
perhaps  even  wholly  from  the  contami- 
328 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

nated  atmosphere  of  Our  Square.  This  last 
would  have  been  a  blow  to  me,  for  she  also 
was  my  pupil,  and  a  profitable  one,  since 
her  father,  Putnam  Varick,  a  dry,  snuffy, 
stern,  lethargic,  ill-natured,  liverish  man, 
paid  me  liberally  to  come  five  times  a  week 
and  give  her  a  grounding  in  Latin  and 
French.  But  I  could  not  find  it  in  my 
heart  to  deprive  my  little  Paula  of  her  one 
taste  of  real  childhood. 

Discovery  was,  of  course,  inevitable. 
One  day  Paula  came  into  the  dim  and 
solemn  Varick  library  where  lessons  were 
conducted  with  her  big,  wistful,  gray  eyes 
all  wet  and  wincing,  and  her  queer, 
sprightly  little  face  like  a  mask  of  grief. 
Behind  her  came  nurse  with  the  expression 
of  a  hanging  judge.  The  culprit,  it  ap- 
peared, had  been  found  in  the  possession 
of  contraband  goods  —  to  wit,  a  wad  of 
much-chewed  gum.  Worse,  it  had  been 
discovered  in  a  most  inappropriate  place. 

"I   puh-hut  it  in   my  huh-huh-hair," 


Our  Square 


wept  the  sorrowful  little  Tiger,  "and  it 
stu-huh-huck." 

"She  won't  tell  me  where  she  got  it," 
said  nurse. 

"I  did.  I  to-hold  you  an  angel  gave  it 
to  me,"  declared  the  Tiger,  clinging  with 
pathetic  resolution  to  her  drama  of  the 
roof. 

Nurse  sniffed.  Her  theological  imagi- 
nation did  not  extend  to  heavenly  visitors 
who  dispensed  that  kind  of  manna.  It  was 
her  opinion  for  what  it  was  worth  (sniff) 
that  somebody  had  been  throwing  things 
(sniff)  on  the  roof.  Next  time  it  might  be 
(sniff)  poison.  Nurse  did  have  an  imagina- 
tion of  a  kind. 

It  was  n't  poison  next  time.  It  was 
a  kite.  Carlo  had  flown  it  from  his  own 
roof  and  had  brought  the  twine  down  in 
his  teeth,  and  had  passed  the  ball  through 
the  netting  to  the  Tiger.  Oh,  the  thrill  of 
ecstasy  running  up  her  arm,  to  spread  and 
glow  on  live  wires  through  every  nerve, 

330 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

as  she  felt  for  the  first  time  the  tug  and 
tremor  of  the  beautiful,  soaring,  captive 
thing  swaying  far,  far  above  her,  higher 
than  the  highest  roof-top  she  could  see, 
higher  than  the  biggest  mountain  in  her 
geography,  as  high  as  the  vanished  cloud 
whence  the  beneficent  angel  of  her  happy 
drama  had  descended  to  brighten  a  hith- 
erto correct  and  humdrum  existence.  Alas 
for  angels'  visits!  From  a  bench  in  Our 
Square,  nurse  saw  the  aerial  messenger  and 
traced  the  string  to  the  Varick  roof.  She 
hurried  home  and  upstairs  to  the  roof-top 
a  good  twenty  minutes  before  her  sched- 
uled return. 

But  the  scuttle  stuck,  and  Carlo's  quick 
ear,  catching  the  sound,  warned  him. 
With  a  quick  word  to  his  playfellow,  he 
dodged  behind  the  chimney  and  began  to 
climb  the  looped  rope.  There  was  a  little 
space  in  which  the  climber  always  emerged 
above  the  chimney  into  the  view  of  the 
child  in  the  cage  before  he  surmounted 


Our  Square 

the  coping  of  the  upper  roof.  Paula's  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  this  point.  The  nurse's 
glance  followed  hers.  Carlo  appeared, 
climbing  in  hot  haste.  He  missed  one  of 
the  loops.  There  was  a  muffled  cry.  His 
body  turned,  swayed,  and  plunged  down 
into  the  fifty-foot  abyss  between  the  two 
buildings.  The  nurse,  scared  out  of  her 
senses,  rushed  down  the  scuttle-way  and 
hid  in  her  room,  accusing  herself  of  be- 
ing an  involuntary  murderess,  while  poor 
Paula  tore  and  battered  with  her  tender 
fingers  at  the  cruel  iron  meshes  in  a  passion 
of  grief  and  despair,  long  after  nurse  had 
disappeared. 

A  low  call  from  above  stopped  her. 
Her  angel  leaned  over  the  roof. 

"Has  she  gone?"  he  asked. 

The  child  nodded  in  silent  terror  and 
wonder.  He  came  down  the  rope  swiftly 
and  steadily.  When  he  approached  the 
cage,  she  saw  that  he  was  bleeding  from 
a  gash  above  his  temple. 

332 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

"I  struck  on  a  clothesline,"  he  said. 
"It  tipped  me  into  a  balcony.  Just  below 
your  roof.  Lucky !  " 

"I  thought  you  were  killed,"  she  whis- 
pered. "Oh,  Angel,  I  thought  you  were 
dead." 

"Not  hurt  a  bit,"  he  averred  valiantly. 
"  Did  she  see  me?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  they  won't  let  me  come  any 
more." 

"They'll  take  me  away,"  wailed  the 
Tiger. 

There  was  a  pause.  "  I  '11  be  sorry," 
said  the  boy. 

"So '11  I." 

"  I  '11  be  aw'f 'ly  sorry,"  said  the  boy  pain- 
fully. 

"So '11  I." 

"I'll  come  and  find  you  when  I'm 
grown  up." 

"Will  you?"  she  cried  eagerly. 

"  Cross  my  heart." 

333 


Our  Square 


"And  I'll  keep  your  gum  forevern  — 
evern  —  ever,"  she  promised  solemnly. 
"  I  *ve  got  a  piece  yet.  Hidden.  Listen. 
Somebody's  coming!" 

"  Good-bye,  Tiger,"  said  the  boy. 

"  Good-bye,  Angel,"  said  the  girl. 

She  put  her  trembling  little  lips  against 
the  cold  mesh  of  the  wires.  For  a  moment 
he  hesitated  in  boyish  shamefacedness. 
Then  he  bent  over  to  her. 

"I'll  never  forget  you  —  never,"  said 
the  free  little  boy. 

"Nor  I,"  said  the  caged  little  girl. 

He  ran  and  climbed:  climbed  out  of 
her  sight  and  out  of  her  life.  For  the 
scandalized  Varicks  took  her  from  that 
desecrated  roof  to  the  country,  and  when 
they  came  back  Carlo's  father  was  dead, 
and  Carlo  left  with  very  little  visible  means 
of  support.  So  they  passed  on  their  sun- 
dered ways.  He  went  about  his  business 
of  the  fight  for  existence  and  his  place  in 
the  world.  She  went  about  her  business  in 

334 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

a  life  of  developing  sunshine  and  beauty, 
herself  the  developing  embodiment  of 
both.  The  cage  stood  on  the  roof,  lifeless, 
grim,  and  sad. 

Outwardly  Our  Square  changes  little. 
Inwardly  it  suffers  from  the  depredations 
of  the  years  and  an  encroaching  populace. 
No  more  significant  evidence  of  its  fail- 
ing fortunes  could  be  adduced  than  the  sale 
of  the  Varick  mansion.  It  was  purchased  by 
a  Swedish  labor  contractor,  who  sold  it  to 
a  professional  gambler,  who  in  turn  leased 
it  to  a  boarding-house  keeper,  and  that 
sinister  third-floor  front  wherefrom  Ver- 
nam  Varick  had  so  vehemently  ousted  his 
Satanic  mentor  came  to  be  occupied  (to 
what  base  uses!)  by  a  piano-tuner.  The 
cage  of  the  wistful  Tiger  was  found  con- 
venient for  the  week's  wash. 

As  for  the  Varicks,  Our  Square  knew 
them  no  more.  The  fussy,  fubsy,  mean- 
tempered  father  of  Paula  became  finan- 

335 


Our  Square 

cially  venturous  (for  a  Varick),  dipped 
extensively  into  water-rights  and  power- 
plants  in  the  Southwest,  and,  having  thus 
further  improved  the  fortune  handed  down 
to  him  by  Vernam  the  Devil-Chaser,  built 
himself  a  smugly  splendid  palace  on  the 
Park,  wherein  to  house  Paula. 

This,  indeed,  was  no  cage.  For  the  tiny 
captive  of  the  housetop  had  grown  beyond 
all  human  captivity ;  had  become  such  a 
woman  as  the  great  dreamers  and  poets 
enshrine  in  the  sunlit  mist  of  verse.  It  is 
not  for  a  simple,  old  pedagogue  who  had 
loved  the  child  to  describe  the  woman. 
Her  face  is  the  common  property  of  the 
public,  like  a  ruling  monarch's,  so  often 
has  it  appeared  in  the  Sunday  papers,  for 
at  twenty-three  she  was  one  of  the  reign- 
ing beauties  of  a  city  of  lovely  women. 
What  no  camera  could  catch  or  painter 
fix  was  the  joyous  and  joy-giving  quality 
of  her  personality.  It  was  as  if  arrears  of 
happiness  from  her  cramped  and  denied 
336 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

childhood  had  returned  upon  her  ten- 
fold to  be  scattered  in  largess  wherever  she 
went.  A  great  painter  who  had  painted 
a  great  portrait  of  her,  which  delighted 
every  one  but  himself,  had  convicted  him- 
self of  failure  because,  he  said,  while  he 
had  caught  the  flowerlike  delicacy  and  the 
sunlike  radiance  and  the  touch  of  Varick 
imperiousness  in  the  background  of  the 
face,  he  had  failed  to  fix  the  charm  that 
made  her  different  and  more  lovely  than 
a  dozen  other  equally  lovely  women  (he 
was  a  dealer  in  paradox,  that  great  painter) ; 
the  look  of  quiet,  unconscious,  waiting 
deep  in  the  wide,  gray  eyes.  And  a  great 
poet,  who  was  also  of  her  adorers,  said  that 
was  why  she  had  not  married.  And  a  great 
cynic  whose  cynicism  had  fallen  before 
her  said  that  was  why  she  never  would 
marry  unless  a  star  came  down  from  the 
heavens  to  claim  her. 

About  the  time  of  the   height  of  her 
triumphs,  Cyrus  the  Gaunt  came  to  Our 

337 


Our  Square 

Square  to  run  the  ten  thousand-pound 
steam  roller  at  night  and  sit  for  sculpture 
by  day,  and  eventually  marry  the  Bonnie 
Lassie  and  go  to  live  in  the  little,  quaint, 
old  friendly  house  with  the  hospitable 
door,  almost  opposite  the  Varick  mansion. 
Because  Cyrus  the  Gaunt's  forbears  had 
owned  Our  Square  when  it  was  the  Staten 
Farm  and  before  the  first  Varick  had  ar- 
rived upon  the  scene,  Mr.  Putnam  Var- 
ick was  willing  enough  that  his  daughter 
should  go  to  see  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cyrus 
Staten,  albeit  he  had  heard  with  misgiv- 
ings that  some  of  their  dinners  were  laxly 
Bohemian,  combining,  as  they  did,  mil- 
lionaires, bishops,  and  diplomats  with  mu- 
sicians, explorers,  reformers,  and  other  an- 
archists. That  is  how  Paula  Varick  came 
back  into  Our  Square  after  fifteen  years  of 
absence  and  change. 

Another  revenant  came  back  about  that 
time,  along  the  dimly  blazed  trails  of  fate. 
As  I  was  sunning  myself  on  my  favorite 

338 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

bench,  one  afternoon,  I  felt  two  sinewy 
hands  on  my  shoulders,  and  turned  to  face 
a  big,  smiling  stranger.  There  was  some- 
thing in  him  that  told  at  first  sight  of  the 
making  of  the  man  ;  told  that  the  best  life 
of  the  open  had  formed  him  and  the  best 
life  of  the  cities  had  finished  him.  There 
was  a  certain  gravity  and  stability  about  his 
face,  but  the  lips  were  mobile  as  a  boy's 
and  a  shining  mirthfulness  gleamed  from 
the  straight-looking  black  eyes. 

"Dominie!  "  he  said.  Then,  at  my  as- 
tonished look :  "  I  have  n't  made  a  mis- 
take, have  I?" 

"Not  in  the  title  at  least,"  I  said. 

He  shook  me  in  his  iron  grip.  "  Call 
on  your  memory.  It 's  ungrateful  to  forget 
a  man  who  —  who  owes  you  money,"  he 
laughed. 

"  That  does  n't  help  me,"  I  said,  prob- 
ing the  vivid  face. 

"  Have  I  changed  so,  where  nothing 
else  has  changed? "  he  said,  looking  around 

339 


Our  Square 


—  "except  that  they've  put  a  fire  escape 
outside  the  window  where  I  used  to  sleep.'* 

I  followed  his  glance,  and  memory  flashed 
its  belated  recognition :  "  Carlo  Trentano ! " 

He  gave  me  another  powerful,  affec- 
tionate shake.  It  was  like  being  petted  by 
a  lion.  "No  longer,''  he  said.  "That's 
buried  with  —  with  him"  He  looked  again 
toward  the  high-roofed  house  where  his 
father  had  died.  "  I  'm  all  American  now, 
Charles  Trent,  at  your  service." 

"Where  have  I  heard  that  name?" 

"  Seen  it  in  the  papers  probably.  They  've 
had  their  fun  with  me  in  the  Senate  Com- 
mittee hearings." 

"  Ah  !  So  you  're  the  Trent  who 's  been 
making  all  the  trouble  for  the  water-power 
people  in  the  Southwest !  And  I  thought 
that  wonderful  boy's  imagination  of  yours 
was  going  to  make  a  poet  of  you,  or  at 
least  a  dramatist." 

"It  made  me  see  visions,"  he  explained 
with  gravity  —  "visions  that  had  to  be  ex- 

340 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

pressed  in  facts.  After  I  had  worked  my 
way  through  college,  I  went  out  to  the 
desert  country.  And  I  saw  visions  of  water 
brought  from  the  mountains.  What  I  saw 
I  made  other  people  see.  Now  there  are 
growing  cities  and  fertile  farms  where  there 
used  to  be  only  dry  sand  and  my  imagina- 
tion. Isn't  that  poetry,  dominie,  —  and 
drama  ? " 

It  was  all  said  quite  simply,  and  without 
brag,  as  a  man  would  explain  the  working 
of  some  power  outside  of  himself. 

"  But  where  did  you  get  the  money  ? " 

"  People  brought  it  to  me.  The  people 
of  the  dry  country  first.  Afterward  it  came 
in  from  all  over,  much  of  it  from  New 
York;  and  when  I  needed  more  for  my 
biggest  projects  I  went  to  Europe  and 
raised  it." 

"  You  know  what  they  say  of  you  now  ? 
That  you  're  advocating  government  con- 
trol because  you  've  got  all  you  can  get, 
and  wish  to  shut  out  the  others." 


Our  Square 

"  I  'm  offering  to  put  my  companies  on 
the  same  terms  with  the  others,"  he  said 
impatiently.  "All  I  demand  is  that  even- 
tually, when  the  development  concerns 
have  made  their  fair  profit,  the  rights 
should  revert  to  the  people.  So  I  'm  an 
anarchist,*'  he  laughed.  "And  I've  come 
here  to  preach  my  anarchy  in  the  face  of 
Wall  Street." 

"  And  fifteen  years  ago  you  were  a  boy 
of—" 

"Sh-h-h-h,"  he  warned  with  mock  se- 
riousness. "  I  pass  for  thirty-five.  It 's  a 
studied  solemnity  of  demeanor  that  does 
the  trick.  You  should  see  me  at  a  board 
meeting!  This  is  holiday."  He  seized  and 
hugged  me  until  my  old  ribs  cracked. 

"Yet  you  say  you're  all  American,"  I 
protested,  extricating  myself.  "You'll  be 
a  Latin  till  the  day  you  die." 

"  Not  enough  to  impair  my  business 
sense.  Which  reminds  me.  You  've  got  a 
small,  accumulated  interest  in  one  of  my 

342 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

early  projects.  It  isn't  much, — just  the 
debt  for  my  lessons,  —  but  it  pays  a  twenty- 
five  per  cent  dividend.  Now,  dominie,  I 
don't  wish  to  hear  any  protests.  What  do 
you  know  about  business  matters?"  He 
stretched  himself  like  a  big,  lithe  animal 
and  took  another  comprehensive  glance 
about  Our  Square.  "Who's  left?"  he 
asked.  "Any  one  I  knew?" 

"MacLachan  the  Tailor.  And  Thorn- 
sen  of  the  6lite  Restaurant.  Calder  the 
artist  is  dead.  And  do  you  remember — " 
I  cut  myself  short,  on  second  thought,  of 
mentioning  Paula  Varick.  A  better  idea 
had  come  to  me.  The  Bonnie  Lassie  loves 
and  loves  forever  the  friend  who  will 
bring  to  her  house  any  one  genuinely  new 
and  interesting,  provided  only  that  he 
be  presentable.  Carlo,  otherwise  Charles 
Trent,  was  all  three  in  an  eminent  degree. 
"Would  you  care  to  dine  at  thepleasantest 
house  in  Our  Square?"  I  amended. 

"If  I  have  the  time." 

343 


Our  Square 


"Make  the  time,"  I  advised.  "And 
I  '11  see  if  I  can  make  the  place.  It  '11 
be  Wednesday  evening."  For  the  Bonnie 
Lassie  was  giving  one  of  her  little  dinners 
then,  and  I  knew  that  Paula  Varick  was 
to  be  there. 

Carlo  agreed,  gave  me  his  address  at  a 
golden  caravansary,  and  left  to  call  on 
MacLachan  and  Thornsen.  I  sought  out 
the  Bonnie  Lassie. 

"Madam,"  said  I,  "I  am  not  coming 
to  your  dinner." 

"  You  are,"  she  retorted.  "  Paula  Varick 
will  be  there.  You'd  crawl  to  San  Fran- 
cisco to  see  Paula." 

"That's  the  very  reason.  I've  got  a 
substitute."  And  I  explained. 

The  Bonnie  Lassie,  who  is  an  inveterate 
romanticist,  was  delighted.  "  I  '11  have  him 
take  her  in,"  she  said.  "No,  I  can't  do 
that.  The  new  Ambassador  to  Spain  is  to 
take  her  in.  He  shall  sit  on  her  left." 

"When  you  present  him,  introduce  her 

344 


.   Paula  of  the  Housetop 

as  Miss  Mumbleplum  or  something  inar- 
ticulate and  non-committal  of  that  sort. 
She  won't  know  his  name,  of  course.  Let  *s 
see  if  they  '11  discover." 

"  And  you  accuse  me  of  fixing  up  dra- 
matic situations,"  said  the  Bonnie  Lassie 
scornfully,  for  she  has  never  quite  forgiven 
my  comments  upon  her  management  of 
the  affair  between  Ethel  Bennington  and 
the  Little  Red  Doctor,  which  was  so 
nearly  ruined  by  the  hard,  prosaic  fact  of 
a  toothache.  "  You  're  worse  than  an  old 
maid.  But  you  may  come  to  the  dinner 
just  the  same.  I  don't  mind  an  extra 
man." 

So  I  went  to  the  dinner,  and  a  very 
wonderful  dinner  it  was,  as  all  the  din- 
ners in  the  Bonnie  Lassie's  house  are.  Mr. 
Charles  Trent  was  very  much  present, 
looking  typically  American  with  his  se- 
verely correct  clothes,  and  big,  graceful 
figure,  until  you  noticed  his  eyes,  which 
were  n't  American  at  all,  or  anything  else 

345 


Our  Square 


but  individual.  Miss  Paula  Varick  was  also 
very  much  present,  looking  —  well,  look- 
ing as  only  Paula  can  look,  to  the  utter 
wreck  and  ruin  of  the  peace  of  man- 
kind's mind.  In  presenting  Carlo  to  Miss 
Mumbleplum  (as  pre-arranged)  the  hostess 
gave  them  a  lead  by  saying :  — 

"  Mr.  Trent  can  tell  you  all  about  your 
water-rights.  He  's  a  sort  of  magic  lord  of 
the  dry  desert." 

"A  baron  of  sand  and  cactus,"  said 
Trent,  smiling.  But  the  new  Ambassador 
to  Spain  arrived  just  then,  and  nothing 
more  was  said. 

At  the  first  opportunity  afforded  by  the 
diplomat,  Miss  Varick  turned  to  the  guest 
on  her  left. 

"  I  'm  a  landed  proprietor  in  your  coun- 
try," she  said.  "  I  own  ten  whole  shares 
of  stock  in  a  company  of  some  sort." 

"Then  you're  my  fellow  citizen,"  he 
claimed.  "Perhaps  it's  one  of  the  com- 
panies I  'm  interested  in." 
346 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

She  named  it,  and  he  was  amused  to 
learn  that  her  little  ownership  was  in  the 
corporation  which  was  fighting  him  and 
his  plans  most  savagely.  She  did  not  men- 
tion that  her  father  was  a  principal  stock- 
holder and  an  officer  in  that  same  corpo- 
ration. Nor  did  Trent  deem  it  necessary 
to  define  his  position.  He  did  n't  wish 
to  talk  politics  to  this  wonderful  flower- 
woman  next  him.  But  he  did  wish,  most 
determinedly,  to  keep  those  luminous  eyes 
turned  in  his  direction.  What  Charles 
Trent  determinedly  wished  he  usually  got, 
and  he  achieved  this  particular  end  by  talk- 
ing so  well  that  the  fresh-bloomed  diplo- 
mat on  the  farther  side  began  presently  to 
get  fretful.  As  for  Mr.  Trent's  right  side, 
it  mattered  not  a  whit  whether  it  knew 
what  his  left  side  was  doing,  for  it  was  on 
his  right  that  I  sat.  Carlo  fell  to  telling 
Paula  of  the  romance  of  the  hunt  for  the 
treasure  of  water  in  a  dry  land  —  more 
thrilling  to  a  pioneer  of  imagination  than 

347 


Our  Square 

any  search  for  gold  or  silver  or  copper  be- 
cause it  meant  something  more  basic  than 
wealth :  it  meant  life  in  a  country  which 
was  dead.  There  were  searches  for  lost 
canons  and  unmapped  rivers ;  explorations 
of  wild  gorges  where  the  adventurers  in 
improvised  boats  shot  down  along  thou- 
sand-foot-deep cracks  in  the  earth  toward 
unknown  rapids,  listening  for  the  thunder 
of  possible  cataracts;  and,  out  of  all  this 
rude  peril,  the  growth  of  vast  projects  and 
the  gathering  in  from  far  cities  of  dollars, 
pounds,  francs,  marks,  and  even  roubles, 
that  a  desert  land  might  flower  and  new 
cities  arise. 

"What  about  your  own  hairbreadth 
'scapes  in  the  imminent,  deadly  thingum- 
bob—  I  never  can  remember  the  whole 
of  a  quotation?"  she  inquired.  "You're 
very  modest  about  your  own  share.  Tell 
me  the  narrowest  escape  you  ever  had." 

He  answered,  thoughtfully  :  "  Curiously 
enough,  I  fancy  the  narrowest  escape  I 

348 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

ever  had  was  less  than  a  block  from  here. 
I  fell  down  between  two  houses.'* 

The  girl's  eyes  widened  suddenly.  "On 
Our  Square?" 

"  Yes.  Except  for  the  prosaic  matter  of 
the  week's  wash  on  a  clothesline  which 
shunted  me  off,  I  probably  should  n't  be 
here  to-day." 

"Mr.  Trent,"  said  she  slowly,  "do  you 
mind  turning  around  this  way?  Farther. 
Thank  you.  Is  that  scar  over  your  tem- 
ple—" 

"Yes.  I  got  it  there.  How  could  you 
know?" 

Then  recognition  flashed  between  them. 
They  laughed  excitedly,  like  two  children. 
To  the  scandal  of  the  bewildered  Ambas- 
sador's ears,  they  then  entered  upon  the 
following  incredible  conversation  :  — 

"  Little  Boy,  where  did  you  come 
from?" 

"  Up  there." 

"From   that  cloud?"     (The  diplomat 

349 


Our  Square 


looking  at  the  ceiling  with  pained  amaze- 
ment.) 

"Yes." 

"Let  —  me  —  see,"  said  the  girl  dream- 
ily. "  What  comes  next  ?  We  must  n't  lose 
it." 

"Do  you  like  gum?"  he  supplied 
quickly.  (The  ambassadorial  eyes  began 
to  protrude.) 

"What's  gum?" 

"  Chewing-gum,  of  course.  But  alas ! 
I  have  n't  any  with  me,"  lamented  Carlo. 
"Then  there  was  something  about  a  ti- 
ger." 

"Oh,  yes!  I'm  a  tiger  in  my  cage. 
Gr-rr-rr-rr !  If  I  could  get  out  I  'd  eat  you 
up,  Little  Boy." 

"  Of  course ! 

4  Tiger  !  tiger  !  burning  bright  — 
In  the  forests  of  the  night ! '  " 

"  Say  some  more.  You  could  n't  remem- 
ber it,  though,  could  you?  Can  you  re- 
member it  now?" 

35° 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

He  leaned  over  to  her  the  merest  tri- 
fle:— 

"  '  What  immortal  hand  and  eye 

Framed  thy  wondrous  symmetry  ? ' : 

he  quoted  (slightly  altering  the  text  for 
his  own  purposes)  with  a  look  so  direct 
and  an  intonation  so  profound  that  Paula, 
with  all  her  armored  experience,  felt  her- 
self growing  pink. 

"Then  you  brought  me  wonderful 
things  to  play  with  and  a  kite  to  fly  and 
gum  to  chew,"  she  said. 

"And  you  put  it  in  your  hair." 

"So  I  did.  And  they  found  it.  But  I 
did  n't  tell.  I  said  an  angel  brought  it  to 
me.  You  remember  ?  You  were  Angel." 

"And  you  were  Tiger." 

Now,  I  realize  that  diplomats  of  am- 
bassadorial degree  do  not  snort.  But  the 
eminent  gentleman  on  Miss  Varick's  left 
delivered  his  emotions  of  what,  in  a  lesser 
mortal,  would  have  been  dangerously  near 
a  snort,  and  thenceforward  devoted  his  at- 

351 


Our  Square 

tention  to  his  hostess  exclusively,  thereby 
seriously  hampering  her  in  her  efforts  to 
follow  the  progress  of  the  reunion  of  old 
playmates. 

Dinner  being  over,  the  Bonnie  Lassie 
took  the  pair  into  her  studio  to  see  her  new 
series  of  unfinished  bronzes,  and,  having 
got  them  there,  obeyed  an  imperative  (and 
purely  imaginary)  summons  from  without, 
and  left  them.  Quite  unwisely  —  for  she 
had  forgotten  one  important  incident  her- 
self—  the  Tiger  reproached  the  Angel 
with  his  failure  to  remember  her. 

"You  promised,"  she  accused.  "You 
said  you'd  never  forget  —  never." 

Now,  a  less  ready  wit  than  Carlo's  might 
have  retorted  with  the  "ettu"  argument, 
which  would  have  been  poor  strategy. 
Carlo  did  better. 

"I  have  forgotten  nothing,"  he  said 
calmly. 

"You  forgot  me.  You  did  n't  know  me 
from — from  any  other  tiger." 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

"There  never  was  any  other  tiger. 
There  could  n't  be.  Also,  I  remember 
every  episode  of  our  last  meeting  when  I 
promised  never  to  forget.  Do  you?" 

Something  significant  in  his  tone  caused 
the  Tiger  certain  misgivings.  She  began 
to  feel  dimly  that  her  accusation  was  un- 
fortunate. 

"Do  you?"  persisted  the  Angel. 

"  I  remember  the  dreadful  feeling  of  see- 
ing you  disappear,  down  into  that  hole.  And 
your  coming  back  with  the  blood  trickling 
down  your  cheek.  You  were  very  brave." 

"And  our  parting.  Do  you  remember? 
When  you  came  close  to  the  wire  mesh, 
and  lifted  your  face —  Ah,  I  see  you  do 
remember,"  he  concluded  quietly. 

For  suddenly  the  blood  had  flown  into 
Paula  Varick's  face,  and  she  stood  there, 
amazed,  confused,  thrilling  with  an  alarm 
new  to  her  womanhood,  and  wholly  glori- 
ous. In  a  moment  she  had  recovered  her 
poise. 

353 


Our  Square 


"  I  remember  that  I  had  a  true  and  loyal 
friend,'*  she  said  sweetly.  "  Have  I  still  ? " 

He  bent  and  lifted  her  finger-tips  to  his 
lips.  "  For  as  long  as  you  will  command 
him,"  he  said. 

So  it  was  assumed,  without  definite  ar- 
rangement, that  on  his  return  from  Wash- 
ington they  were  to  see  each  other,  and  so 
far  had  their  thoughts  wandered  from  the 
distant  Southwestern  desert  that  neither 
conceived  the  smallest  misgivings  as  to  the 
conflicting  interests  there  of  the  Trent 
projects  and  the  Varick  interests.  In  the 
course  of  a  day  or  two  the  Bonnie  Lassie 
had  the  pair  to  tea,  and  afterward  she  and 
Cyrus  the  Gaunt  and  I  stood  at  the  front 
window,  watching  them  as  they  crossed 
Our  Square.  They  paused  to  look  up  at 
the  cage  on  the  housetop.  The  Bonnie 
Lassie  spoke. 

"You  remember  Tarrant,  the  portrait- 
painter,  bewailing  himself  over  Paula  ? " 
she  asked. 

354 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

"Because  he  couldn't  catch  the  look 
of  unconscious  waiting  in  her  eyes  ? " 

"  Yes.  It 's  gone,"  said  the  Bonnie 
Lassie. 

"  Is  there  something  else  in  its  place  ? " 

"Wonder,"  said  the  Bonnie  Lassie. 

As  for  Carlo,  there  was  no  mistaking 
what  had  happened  to  him.  He  came  to 
see  me  later,  and  tried  hard  not  to  talk  of 
Paula  Varick,  but  all  the  time  his  eyes 
kept  wandering  to  the  cage  on  the  roof. 
Once  he  asked  me  whether  I  thought  the 
Varick  mansion  could  be  bought.  As  for 
his  affairs  in  Washington,  I  think  he  must 
have  commuted  while  the  Senate  hearings 
were  in  progress,  for  there  were  few  days 
when  he  wasn't  in  New  York.  By  what 
devices  he  succeeded  in  being  around  Our 
Square  when  his  playmate  of  other  days 
came  down  to  see  the  Bonnie  Lassie,  I  do 
not  know.  Probably  the  Bonnie  Lassie  was 
in  the  conspiracy.  It  would  be  like  her. 

All  of  which  may  have  been  going  on 

355 


Our  Square 

for  a  fortnight  when  I  stopped  in  at  the 
quaint,  little,  nestly,  old-fashioned  house 
which  radiates  the  happiness  of  Cyrus  the 
Gaunt  and  the  Bonnie  Lassie  all  through 
Our  Square  and  beyond,  and  found  the 
sculptress  hard  at  work  in  her  studio.  My 
particular  purpose  was  to  consult  her  about 
Orpheus  the  Greek  and  his  pipings  to  his 
lost  Eurydice.  Before  I  could  begin  the 
Bonnie  Lassie  removed  her  finger  from  the 
eye  of  old  Granny  Glynn  (in  wet  clay)  and 
pointed  it  at  me. 

"  Plotter  !  "  she  said. 

By  that  I  knew  that  something  had  gone 
wrong.  "Tell  me  the  worst,"  I  besought. 

"  You  did  it,"  she  accused,  still  holding 
me  up  at  the  point  of  that  pink  and  leveled 
digit. 

"Guilty!"  I  pleaded.  "What  did  I  do, 
when,  how,  and  to  whom?" 

"You  brought  those  two  ex-infants 
together.  And  now  look  at  the  poor 
things!"  ' 

356 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

"Are  they  engaged?"  I  cried,  in  high 
hope. 

"Engaged!  Have  you  seen  the  morn- 
ing papers?" 

She  waved  a  modeling  tool  at  a  heap 
of  print  in  the  corner  and  relieved  her 
feelings  by  giving  Granny  Glynn  a  vicious 
whack  on  the  nose  with  the  implement. 
I  caught  up  the  top  paper  and  read  :  — 

VARICK   FLAYS   TRENT 

AS   A  FAKER  AND    SELF-SEEKER   AT 

SENATE    HEARING 

"Oh,  that's  only  politics,"  I  said,  with 
an  attempt  at  easiness. 

"Putnam  Varick  himself  turned  Mr. 
Trent  out  of  the  house  when  he  went  to 
see  Paula,"  said  the  Bonnie  Lassie,  a  bright 
spot  of  color  burning  in  each  soft  cheek. 
"  Is  that  politics  ? " 

"That,"  said  I,  "is  war.  What  is  Paula 
going  to  do  about  it?" 

"What  can  she  do?"  J 

357 


Our  Square 


"Meet  him  outside,  I  suppose." 

"Do  you  think  Paula  Varick  is  the  kind 
of  girl  to  practice  hole-and-corner  meet- 
ings at  museums  or  restaurants?"  said  the 
sculptress  scornfully. 

"  There  are  other  places.  Here,  for  in- 
stance. Though  I  suppose  you  would  n't 
allow  that." 

This  reasonable  hypothesis  nearly  cost 
old  Mrs.  Glynn  an  ear.  "  Indeed  I  would ! 
I  'd  do  anything  to  get  ahead  of  that  father 
of  Paula's.  The  mean  old  skinkum  ! "  said 
the  Bonnie  Lassie,  who  under  great  provo- 
cation sometimes  uses  violent  language. 
"But  Paula  wouldn't  come.  It's  the 
Varick  pride  —  all  that  there  is  of  Varick 
in  her,  thank  Heaven  !  " 

"It  has  its  disadvantages,"  I  said.  "But 
the  point  is,  does  she  care  for  him  ?" 

"  Have  you  seen  them  together  lately  ? 
But  then,  what 's  the  use !  You  're  only  a 
man,"  said  the  Bonnie  Lassie  with  sov- 
ereign contempt.  For  the  moment  she 

358 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

ceased  to  be  an  artist  and  became  a  phi- 
losopher. "  Some  people,"  she  pronounced 
sagely,  "just  naturally  fall  in  love  by  de- 
grees. Some" — her  face  turned  uncon- 
sciously toward  the  outer  room  where 
Cyrus  the  Gaunt  was  busy,  and  became 
dreamy  and  tender  —  "  run  away  from  love 
and  are  overtaken  by  it.  And  some  go  open- 
hearted  and  open-armed,  to  meet  it  when 
it  comes.  That  is  Paula.  She  's  the  type 
of  woman  to  whom  there  is  only  one  pos- 
sible man  in  the  world.  He  has  found  her." 

"  Does  she  know  it?" 

The  Bonnie  Lassie,  smiling,  poised  her 
tool  above  a  difficult  problem  of  artistry 
pertaining  to  Granny  Glynn's  front  hair 
(which  was  false).  "You're  less  stupid 
than  you  might  be.  Her  heart  does.  But 
her  mind  has  n't  admitted  it." 

"Does  be  know  it?" 

"No.  He  hardly  dares  hope.  He's  so 
terribly  afraid." 

"  It 's  the  first  time  in  his  life,  then." 

359 


Our  Square 

"I  believe  you,  dominie.  Perhaps  it's 
the  first  time  he 's  been  in  love,  too.  It 's 
good  for  his  soul,  but  it 's  hard  on  the  poor 
man.  When  he  came  this  morning  for  a 
sitting  he  looked  more  like  a  pale  martyr 
in  a  stained-glass  window  than  a  flesh-and- 
blood  man.  I  had  to  send  him  away." 

"Oh,  well,"  I  said  comfortably,  "if 
they  really  care  for  each  other,  time  will 
straighten  it  out." 

"It  will,"  she  retorted.  "About  three 
days'  time.  The  Varicks  start  for  the  Far 
East  on  Saturday." 

"  Without  Paula's  seeing  Carlo  again  ?" 
I  asked  in  dismay. 

"  Mr.  Varick  has  written  a  note  to  Mr. 
Trent  saying  that  it  is  by  Paula's  own  wish, 
and  that  she  does  not  want  to  see  him 
again." 

"That's  a  lie,  isn't  it?"  I  asked. 

"  Probably  it  is.  But  I  don't  think  Paula 
will  see  him.  If  she  has  promised  her  father, 
she  certainly  won't.  Now,  what  are  you 
360 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

going  to  do  about  it?"  she  concluded 
calmly,  laying  down  her  implement  and 
fixing  me  with  an  accusing  eye. 

"What  am/—" 

"  Don't  try  to  evade  your  responsibility, 
dominie.  It's  all  your  doing." 

"  Just  because  it  isn't  turning  out  right," 
I  said  hotly.  "  You  know  perfectly  well, 
lassie,  that  if  everything  had  gone  smoothly 
you  would  have  —  " 

"  Claimed  all  the  credit."  The  Bonnie 
Lassie,  dimpling,  took  the  words  out  of 
my  mouth.  "And  quite  right  too.  When 
I  manage  things  they  're  —  they  're  man- 
aged. Once  again  I  ask  you,  dominie : 
What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?" 

I  walked  over  to  the  window  and  looked 
out,  leaning  on  my  cane.  Against  a  pale 
corner  of  the  sky,  the  cage  top  loomed 
haggard  and  grim.  A  swift  and  soaring 
notion  sprang  into  being  in  my  mind. 

"  I  'm  going  to  borrow  your  telephone," 
said  I. 

361 


Our  Square 

Getting  Miss  Paula  Varick  was  no  slight 
task.  I  had  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  half  a 
dozen  questioners — they  were  guarding 
her  against  the  onslaught  of  the  predatory 
Trent,  I  suppose  —  before  she  answered 
me,  not  in  the  softly  ringing  music  of  her 
familiar  voice,  but  with  a  deadened  tone- 
lessness  which  both  startled  and  reassured 
me.  When  I  had  delivered  my  message, 
I  returned  to  the  studio. 

"  Well  ? "  queried  the  Bonnie  Lassie. 

"  I  have  just  talked  with  Paula." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"  She  said,  as  nearly  as  I  recall,  '  Oh ! ' 
Also,  '  Thank  you,  dominie ! ' 

"  Don't  be  a  horrid  and  exasperating 
old  man.  What  did  you  say  to  her  ? " 

"  I  gave  her  some  interesting  news 
about  a  local  landmark." 

The  Bonnie  Lassie  came  over  to  me  in 
three  swift  little  bounds  like  a  kitten,  and 
pointed  some  sort  of  high-art  tool  at  my  chin. 
"Tell  me  at  once,"  she  commanded. 
362 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

"  I  've  just  informed  Miss  Varick  that 
the  cage  on  the  roof  of  No.  1 3  has 
been  ordered  removed  not  later  than  to- 
morrow." 

"Has  it?" 

"  Thinking,"  I  pursued  serenely,  "  that 
she  might  wish  to  take  a  final  look  at  the 
place  where  she  first  tasted  the  delights 
of  chewing-gum,  —  these  crucial  experi- 
ences of  childhood,  you  know  —  " 

"  Don't  be  a  goose,  dominie.  Suppose 
she  does  n't  come  ?  " 

"Then  you  were  wrong,  and  she  does 
n't  really  care  for  him." 

The  Bonnie  Lassie  lowered  her  tool 
and  bestowed  a  glance  of  approval  upon 
me  which  encouraged  me  to  continue. 

"  She  might  even  want  to  go  up  to  the 
housetop  once  more." 

"  She  might,"  agreed  the  Bonnie  Lassie 
thoughtfully.  "  That  could  be  arranged  — 
in  case  she  does." 

"  A    little  judicious    stimulus    to    her 

363 


Our  Square 


mind,"  I  suggested,  "if  it  doesn't  occur 
to  her." 

"  Leave  it  to  me." 

One  of  the  many  delightful  things  about 
the  Bonnie  Lassie  is  that  it 's  never  nec- 
essary to  draw  diagrams  for  her.  So  I  left 
it  to  her  and  went  to  telephone  Carlo.  He 
said  that  he  had  a  business  engagement 
or  two  for  the  following  morning,  but  it 
did  n't  matter  (in  a  voice  which  indicated 
that  nothing  in  the  world  mattered  any 
more),  and  if  I  wished  to  see  him  of  course 
he  'd  come. 

So  I  bade  the  Bonnie  Lassie  good-day 
and  went  home  to  mature  a  reasonable 
excuse  for  summoning  one  of  the  busiest 
young  men  in  America  to  my  side.  By 
the  time  he  arrived  the  next  day  I  had  a 
plausible  sort  of  lie  fixed  up  about  a  stock 
concerning  which  I  wished  some  advice. 
Schepstein,  our  local  financier,  had  coached 
me  on  it.  But  when  Carlo  inquired  at  the 
start  whether  it  was  common  or  preferred 

364 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

I  was  talking  about,  I  had  to  admit  that  I 
did  n't  know. 

"  What  did  you  send  for  me  for,  then, 
dominie?"  he  asked  patiently. 

A  motor-car  which  I  recognized  had 
arrived  at  and  departed  from  the  Bonnie 
Lassie's  door.  I  played  desperately  for 
time,  while  Carlo's  disconsolate  regard 
wandered  to  the  wire-mesh  structure,  seen 
only  dimly  now  through  the  half-bare 
branches  of  trees  which  had  been  small 
when  he  was  a  boy  and  my  pupil.  From 
where  he  sat  he  could  not  see  —  I  ma- 
neuvered his  seat  to  manage  that  —  what 
I  saw;  two  girlish  figures  cross  Our  Square 
and  separate  at  the  entrance  to  No.  13. 
The  Bonnie  Lassie  had  done  her  part.  Now 
for  mine. 

"  Carlo,"  I  said,  "  are  you  looking  at 
the  Tiger's  cage?" 

"  Yes." 

"  They  're  tearing  it  down  to-day  or 
to-morrow." 

365 


Our  Square 


"  Are  they  ? "  said  he  vaguely,  and  lost 
himself  in  a  sad  maze. 

I  reflected  with  bitterness  that  senti- 
ment in  the  man  and  sentiment  in  the 
woman  often  assume  different  manifesta- 
tions. 

"  I  was  in  your  garret  last  week/'  I  con- 
tinued. "  It  is  n't  much  changed." 

"  What  is  it  being  used  for  ?" 

"  A  sort  of  loft.  The  wall  panel  your 
father  sketched  in  crayon  is  still  there." 

"  I  'd  like  to  see  that,"  said  Carlo. 

"  Nothing  easier,"  I  replied  with  ela- 
tion. "  I  know  the  people.  Come  along." 

Five  minutes  later  we  were  climbing 
the  stairs  to  the  top  floor.  Carlo  sought 
out  the  blurred  sketch  and  stood  before 
it.  "  Poor  old  padre,"  he  mused.  "  He 
believed  that  he  was  destined  to  become 
a  great  painter.  I  wonder." 

His  glance  roamed.  "  There 's  where  I 
used  to  sleep  when  the  nights  were  hot. 
And  there 's  my  study  corner.  You  were 
366 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

good  to  me,  dominie.  What 's  the  mat- 
ter ?  Are  n't  you  well  ? " 

"  It's  close  here,"  I  said  with  desperate 
strategy,  and  pushed  open  the  dormer 
half-door  leading  to  the  roof. 

Carlo's  face,  which  had  grown  dreamy, 
suddenly  became  overspread  with  gloom 
as  he  looked  out  upon  the  roof.  He  hesi- 
tated. And  the  precious  moments  were 
passing.  Paula  must  be  on  her  former  roof 
at  that  moment.  Any  minute  she  might 
leave.  Would  Carlo  go  out  for  a  look,  or  — 

He  went  out.  I  followed.  A  high,  in- 
spiring wind  was  blowing.  It  hummed 
and  cried  through  the  meshes  of  the  cage 
on  the  roof  below  with  the  voice  of  a  thou- 
sand imperative  and  untranslatable  mes- 
sages. The  girl  in  the  cage  held  her  face 
toward  it,  yearning  to  its  dim  and  pregnant 
music,  and  I  thought  I  had  never  seen  a 
face  so  lovely,  so  lonely,  so  desolate.  Then 
I  turned  to  Carlo  and  was  glad  to  the  root- 
nerves  of  my  heart  that  I  had  brought  him. 

367 


Our  Square 

That  gladness  lasted  about  one  heart- 
beat and  died  a  death  of  terror.  For,  with- 
out a  word,  Carlo  stepped  upon  the  coping, 
lowered  himself  over  the  grim  well-space 
between  the  houses,  then  threw  his  body 
outward,  with  a  swift,  powerful  impulsion. 
He  hurtled  down  the  ten  feet,  which 
might  be  fifty,  and  destruction,  if  his  out- 
thrust  were  not  forceful  enough.  But  he 
landed,  one  hundred  and  ninety-odd  pounds 
of  hard,  lithe  manhood,  on  the  edge  of  the 
roof,  as  light  and  firm  as  a  cat.  At  the 
sound  she  turned  and  saw  him  coming  to 
her  from  behind  the  chimney,  as  he  had 
come  in  the  days  of  her  lonely  childhood. 

"  Little  Tiger,"  he  said  very  softly. 

"  Angel !  "  She  tried  bravely  to  laugh, 
but  it  was  an  uncertain,  fluttering  sound. 
"  Have  you  dropped  from  your  cloud 
again  ? " 

He  came  straight  to  the  cage  door  and 
stood,  looking  at  her  with  his  soul  in  his 
eyes,  and  she  strove  to  meet  his  gaze,  her 
368 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

own  look  fluttering  away  before  the  sweet 
terror  of  full  realization. 

Carlo  set  his  hand  to  the  latch.  Some 
unknown  imbecile,  solicitous  for  the  safety 
of  the  week's  wash,  had  put  some  sort  of 
an  infernal  patent  spring  lock  upon  the 
door.  It  resisted.  His  hand  fell. 

"Will  you  open  it  to  me?"  he  said 
quietly. 

"I  —  I  can't,"  said  the  girl. 

"  Is  it  to  be  the  old  barrier,  then  ? "  he 
said  passionately  —  "  the  barrier  that  has 
always  been  set  between  us  ? " 

She  made  no  reply.  But  there  came  to 
her  face  a  wonderful  color,  and  to  her  lips 
a  wonderful  smile. 

"  Paula,"  said  Carlo,  "  nothing  can  stand 
between  us  except  your  will."  He  raised 
both  hands  to  the  heavy  meshes.  "  Shall 
I  come?" 

"  Come!  "  she  said. 

Then  that  gate  sprang  from  its  hinges 
with  a  shriek  of  tortured  metal,  the  voice, 

369 


Our  Square 

as  it  might  be,  of  all  the  generations  of 
Varicks,  raised  in  frenzied,  ineffectual  pro- 
test. Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  the  sockets  were 
rusted  out  and  ready  to  give  way ;  never- 
theless, it  was  a  startling  and  thrilling  thing 
to  see.  He  tossed  the  door  behind  him, 
where  it  fell  with  a  harsh  rattle.  And  Paula, 
uncaged  at  last,  came  to  his  heart  with  a 
cry,  and  clung  there. 

Age  warms  itself  in  reflected  fires.  I  was 
sitting  on  my  favorite  bench  in  Our  Square 
some  weeks  later,  meditating  with  a  mild 
glow  upon  the  outcome  of  the  encounter 
between  Carlo  and  his  Tiger  (for  which, 
by  the  way,  the  Bonnie  Lassie  put  in  a 
wholly  unjustified  claim  of  half-credit), 
when  two  figures  walking  quite  close  to- 
gether approached  and  stopped  in  front 
of  me.  They  were  very  good  to  look  at, 
those  two,  as  youth  and  joy  and  the  splen- 
dor of  love  are  always  good  for  old  age  to 
look  at.  I  welcomed  them  to  a  corner 

370 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

of  my  bench,  facing  the  Varick  mansion, 
which  was  poor  policy. 

"So  you  haven't  gone  to  the  Far  East?" 
I  said  to  Miss  Paula. 

"No,"  she  said,  "father  decided  not  to 
take  me.  He  has  gone  for  his  health." 

"  Nothing  serious,  I  trust,"  I  said  po- 
litely. 

"He  is  suffering,"  said  Miss  Paula 
primly,  "  from  unrequited  objections." 
Her  smiling  and  happy  regard  rested  on 
Carlo  and  then  passed  dreamily  to  the 
squat  and  broad  and  drab  old  mansion  fac- 
ing us. 

"Why!"  she  cried,  "the  cage  is  still 
there!" 

"So  it  is,"  I  answered  as  nonchalantly 
as  I  could. 

"Then  they  did  n't  tear  it  down." 

"Apparently  they  did  n't." 

"You  told  me  they  were  going  to.  And 
you  told  Ang — Carlo  they  were  going 
to." 


Our  Square 


"Did  I?  So  I  did.  They  must  have 
changed  their  minds.'* 

"  Who  ordered  it  down  ? "  inquired 
Carlo  mildly. 

"  The  fire  department,"  I  said  promptly. 

"  On  account  of  the  inflammable  nature 
of  steel  wire,  I  suppose." 

"  I  mean  the  sanitary  inspectors,"  I  has- 
tily corrected  myself. 

"  For  fear  that  somebody  might  sleep 
in  it  and  catch  cold  !  Of  course ! " 

"Well,  the  fact  is  —  " 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Miss  Paula  Varick, 
"  that  you  're  a  wicked  old,  scheming  old, 
blessed  old  fibber." 

And  she  then  and  there  pounced  upon 
me  and  kissed  me  under  the  left  ear,  in  the 
full  and  astounded  sight  of  Our  Square. 
Carlo's  hand  covered  hers  as  it  rested  on 
my  shoulder,  and  we  three  lifted  our  faces 
again  to  the  cage,  standing  unchanged  on 
the  housetop,  gaunt  and  grim  and  lifeless. 
As  we  looked,  the  sun,  striking  through 

37* 


Paula  of  the  Housetop 

the  edges  of  a  cloud,  —  such  as  angels 
descend  from,  —  touched  the  harsh,  dull 
metal  to  flaming  crimson  and  glowing 
gold,  and  made  of  it  a  living  glory,  as  love 
makes  a  living  glory  of  life. 


The  Little  T^ed  "Doctor  of  Our 
Square 

LET  me  tell  the  worst  of  the  Little 
Red  Doctor  at  once  and  get  it  over 
with.  He  has  a  hair-trigger  temper  and  a 
jaw  that  does  not  forget  or  forgive  read- 
ily. He  insists  on  regarding  gravely  many 
things  which  most  of  us  treat  flippantly, 
such  as  love  and  death.  He  has  a  brutal 
disregard  of  the  finesse  of  illness  and  never 
gives,  even  to  an  old  man  and  an  old  pa- 
tient like  myself,  medicine  unless  one 
needs  it.  For  the  rest,  the  nickname  which 
Our  Square  gave  him  long  since  describes 
him.  One  thing  more ;  though  he  is  our 
friend  and  fellow  and  counselor,  the  safe 
repository  of  our  secrets,  our  sturdy  de- 
fender against  the  final  enemy,  yet  Our 
Square  does  not  call  him  "  Doc."  There 
is  something  about  him  which  forbids. 
You  would  have  to  seelhim  to  understand. 

374 


'The  Little  Red  Doctor 

Seeing  him,  you  would  not  see  very 
much.  Nature  has  done  a  slack  job  with 
the  Little  Red  Doctor's  outside.  Even  the 
Bonnie  Lassie,  stickler  though  she  is  for 
the  eminence  of  nature  as  an  artist,  heret- 
ically  admits  this.  She  tried  to  better  it  in 
sculpture,  and  by  force  of  the  genius  in 
her  slim  fingers  she  did  succeed  in  getting 
at  the  dominant  meaning  of  those  queer 
quirks  in  his  queer  face  —  quirks  of  hu- 
mor, of  compassion,  of  sympathy  —  and 
thereby  in  expressing  something  of  his 
fiery  tenderness,  his  intrepid  wisdom,  his 
inclusive  charity  of  heart  toward  good  and 
bad  alike,  the  half-boyish,  half-knightly 
valor  of  self-sacrifice  which  arms  him  in 
the  lists  for  the  endless  combat  with  his 
unconquerable  antagonist,  "my  old  friend, 
Death."  With  her  happy  sense  of  charac- 
ter she  called  her  miniature  bronze  "The 
Idealist,"  and  refused  to  sell  it  because,  she 
said,  some  day  Our  Square  would  want  to 
put  up  a  monument  to  the  Little  Red 

375 


Our  Square 

Doctor  and  her  attempt  might  help  some 
bigger  artist  to  be  worthy  of  the  task. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  observed  to  Cyrus 
the  Gaunt  the  day  that  she  finished,  "  I  've 
discovered  something  about  that  face  ? 
There  's  no  happiness  in  it.  And  it  so  de- 
serves happiness  ! " 

"Some  fool  of  a  girl  probably  turned 
him  down  and  he  came  here  to  bury  him- 
self," surmised  Cyrus  the  Gaunt.  "We 
homely,  good  men  are  never  properly  ap- 
preciated. Look  at  me  !  " 

The  Bonnie  Lassie  looked  at  him  and 
then  kissed  him  on  the  ear.  "  Just  the 
same  I  think  you  're  wrong,"  she  said 
thoughtfully.  "  When  I  first  saw  the  Lit- 
tle Red  Doctor,  I  wondered  whether  any 
woman  could  possibly  love  him.  Since 
I  've  known  him  I  've  wondered  how  any 
woman  could  possibly  help  it." 

"  That  's  a  pleasant  thing  for  a  man 
to  hear  from  his  wife,"  observed  Cyrus 
cheerfully.  "  Anyway,  there 's  a  photo- 


The  Little  Red  Doctor 

graph  been  scraped  out  of  the  inside  of 
his  watch.  Mendel,  the  watchmaker,  told 
Polyglot  Elsa  so." 

Barring  this  tenuous  evidence,  what- 
ever may  have  passed  in  the  Little  Red 
Doctor's  former  existence  was  wholly  un- 
known to  Our  Square,  even  after  he  be- 
came one  of  us.  He  trailed  no  clouds  of 
glory  and  apparently  no  clues  from  his 
previous  existence.  All  that  we  knew  was 
that  he  landed  from  a  long  voyage  in  trop- 
ical lands  and  set  up  his  shingle,  "  Dr. 
Smith,"  at  No.  1 1.  Business  did  not  rush 
to  him.  We  are  a  conservative  and  cau- 
tious community  in  Our  Square.  We 
watched  and  weighed  him.  Presently  he 
got  a  little  foothold  in  the  reeking  slum 
tenements  which  surround  our  struggling 
and  cherished  respectability.  It  could  not 
have  been  a  profitable  practice.  But  it  af- 
forded experience.  Sometimes  he  came 
back  with  triumph  in  his  face;  sometimes 
with  stern  gloom;  sometimes  with  a  black 

377 


Our  Square 


eye,  for  the  practice  of  medicine  as  carried 
on  in  our  immediate  environment  involves 
sundry  departments,  not  taught  in  the 
schools,  and  branches  out  into  strange  and 
eclectic  activities.  In  those  early  days  I 
overheard  Terry  the  Cop  assert  that  the 
new  physician  could  "  lick  his  weight 
in  wildcats."  But  when  I  informed  Terry 
that  this  would  mean  at  least  five  of  the 
species,  Terry  replied  airily  that  he  was 
no  Zoo  attendant,  but  he  knew  a  scrapper 
when  he  saw  one. 

If  one  may  credit  the  Murphy  family, 
the  Little  Red  Doctor  gained  his  real  foot- 
hold in  Our  Square  through  force,  inva- 
sion, violence,  and  brutal  assault.  The 
Murphys  occupy  the  ground  floor  of  the 
corner  house  abutting  on  Our  Alley,  un- 
der the  workroom  of  Dead-Men's-Shoes, 
who,  through  their  unwitting  instrumen- 
tality, became  sponsor  for  the  Little  Red 
Doctor.  Dead-Men's-Shoes  comes  by  his 
name  from  his  business,  which  is  the  pur- 

378 


"The  Little  Red  Doctor 

chase  and  resale  of  the  apparel  of  the  re- 
cently deceased,  collected  on  wagon  trips 
over  a  wide  radius  about  New  York. 
Thus  it  comes  about  that  the  feet  of  the 
mighty  have  been  represented  in  Our 
Square,  and  more  than  one  of  us  has  worn 
the  giant's  robe  as  tailored  on  Fifth  Ave- 
nue. The  ol'-clo'  man's  real  name  is  Dad- 
mun  Schutz,  and  he  is  a  Yankee  from 
Connecticut  where  there  are  many  Dad- 
muns  and  more  Schutzes,  but  how  and 
why  he  came  to  Our  Square  is  a  story  that 
I  do  not  care  to  tell.  The  slight  alteration 
in  his  name  to  fit  his  trade  was  so  logical 
as  to  be  inevitable.  Dead-Men's-Shoes  is 
tall  and  rugged  and  powerful  and  slow, 
and  he  always  wears  an  extinct  species  of 
silk  hat  on  his  business  rounds.  In  the 
day  which  introduced  him  to  the  Little 
Red  Doctor,  the  Murphys  had  declared 
holiday  and  gone  fishing  and  caught 
fish.  Naturally  they  held  alcoholic  cele- 
bration in  the  evening.  Passing  the 

379 


Our  Square 

house,  the  Little  Red  Doctor  heard  the 
sounds  of  revelry;  also  another  sound 
which  checked  his  progress.  He  stuck 
his  head  in  at  the  window,  took  a  hasty 
survey,  followed  the  head  into  the  room 
and  laid  hands  upon  Timmy  Murphy  cetat 
ten.  Astonished  but  in  no  way  dismayed 
by  the  invasion,  Paterfamilias  Murphy 
immediately  threw  a  whiskey  bottle  at 
the  intruder  and  rushed  to  the  rescue,  fol- 
lowed by  the  partner  of  his  bosom.  It  was 
no  time  for  diplomacy  or  fine  distinctions 
as  to  the  rights  of  the  non-combatant  sex. 
The  Little  Red  Doctor  acted  with  promp- 
titude and  both  hands,  and  the  Murphys 
came  to  in  the  kitchen  with  the  door 
barred  against  reentry.  Thereupon  they 
raised  such  lamentable  outcry  that  Dad- 
mun  Schutz  loped  downstairs  to  the  res- 
cue. Seeing  a  stranger  in  the  act  of  throt- 
tling the  scion  of  the  house  of  Murphy, 
the  ol'-clo'  man  undertook  to  dissuade  him 
by  fixing  a  bony  hand  in  his  collar;  but 
380 


Litt/e  Red  Doctor 


in  so  doing  forgot  the  existence  of  what 
is  technically  termed,  I  understand,  the 
pivot  blow.  Upon  discovering  its  uses  he 
lay  down  in  the  hallway  to  meditate  upon 
it.  The  Little  Red  Doctor  finished  his  job 
before  Terry  the  Cop's  substitute  arrived 
to  arrest  him.  He  went  peacefully.  Dead- 
Men's-Shoes  followed  to  the  court,  escort- 
ing Murphy  senior,  who  was  extensively 
bandaged.  The  bench  was  occupied  and 
ornamented  by  Magistrate  Wolfe  Tone 
Hanrahan,  the  Irish  Solon  of  Avenue  B. 
Judge  Hanrahan  possesses  a  human  stratum 
in  his  judicial  temperament.  His  exam- 
ination of  the  prisoner  (suppressed  from 
the  stenographer's  official  notes)  proceeded 
as  follows  :  — 

'The  Judge  —  What  were  you  doing  in 
Murphys'  flat? 

The  .Accused  —  I  was  there  professionally. 

The  Judge  —  Professionally,  say  ye?  (With 
a  look  at  the  ill-repaired  Murphys.)  Are  ye  a 
prize-fighter  ? 

The  Accused  —  I  am  a  physician  and  surgeon. 


Our  Square 


'The  "Judge — Mostly  surgeon,  I  'm  thinkin'. 
Ye  seem  to  have  removed  three  teeth  from  the 
patient  an'  partly  ampytated  an  ear.  Besides,  he 
swears  ye  tried  to  murder  the  boy.  Is  such  yer 
usual  practice? 

'The  Accused —  The  boy  had  a  fish  bone  in  his 
throat.  He  was  strangling.  Here  is  the  bone. 
The  boy  is  in  bed.  I  ought  to  be  with  him  now. 

'The  Judge — Officer,  ye 're  a  fool.  Murphy, 
y'  oughta  get  ten  days.  Mrs.  Murphy,  back 
to  yer  child !  Defendant,  cud  ye  come  to  my 
house,  No.  36,  to-morra  mornin'?  My  cook 
has  a^bile  on  her  neck.  I  like  yer  style.  Yere 
discharged. 

Dead-Men's- Shoes  escorted  the  phy- 
sician back  apologizing  at  every  step,  and 
thenceforth  touted  for  him  (greatly  to 
his  embarrassment)  until  Our  Square  grew 
afraid  to  call  in  any  other  practitioner  lest 
the  partisan  ol'-clo'  man  should  accuse  us 
of  attempted  suicide  by  negligence.  Within 
a  year  of  his  arrival  the  little  Red  Doctor 
had  become,  as  it  were,  official  healer  to 
the  whole  place.  And  where  he  began  as 
physician  he  ended  as  friend  and  ally. 
382 


"The  Little  Red  Doctor 

The  Little  Red  Doctor  was  intensely 
personal  in  his  permanent  engagement 
with  his  old  friend,  Death. 

While  I  am,  of  course,  a  part  of  the  Lit- 
tle Red  Doctor's  large  practice,  I  do  not  add 
much  to  his  meager  income.  In  fact,  he 
usually  laughs  me  and  my  minor  ailments 
out  of  court  and  declines  to  administer 
anything  but  free  advice.  On  the  particu- 
lar June  evening  when  I  unwittingly  be- 
came a  partner  of  the  fates,  nothing  really 
ailed  me  except  that  I  had  not  been  sleep- 
ing for  some  nights  and  was  tired  of  it. 
The  Little  Red  Doctor  went  over  me 
briefly  and  prescribed. 

"One  full  day  in  the  open  sunrise  to 
sundown." 

"Where?" 

He  reflected.  "Go  crepe-hunting  with 
Dead-Men's-Shoes,"  he  said  at  length. 

Thus  it  was  that  from  nine  o'clock  on, 
of  a  balmy,  sweet-scented  morning,  the 
sleek  and  raucous  automobiles  of  West- 

38.3 


Our  Square 

chester  County  hooted  disdainfully  at 
Dadmun  Schutz  and  myself,  jogging  ap- 
preciatively along  behind  Schutz's  mouse- 
hued  mare,  Dolly  Gray,  through  a  world 
so  alien  to  Our  Square  as  to  suggest  another 
scheme  of  creation ;  a  world  of  birds  and 
butterflies  and  bees  and  trees  and  flowers 
and  song  and  color  and  blithe  winds.  This 
world  was,  most  appropriately,  inhabited 
by  a  brown-and-gold  fairy.  Any  one  could 
tell  that  she  was  a  fairy  by  the  sunlight  in 
her  hair,  and  the  starlight  in  her  eyes,  and 
the  fact  that,  at  the  moment  when  we  dis- 
covered her,  two  butterflies  were  engaged 
in  aerial  combat  to  decide  which  one 
should  settle  on  the  pink  rose  above  her 
ear.  The  flower  flaunted  there  like  a  chal- 
lenge against  the  somberness  of  her  cos- 
tume, for  the  fairy  was  dressed  entirely 
in  black.  She  was  leaning  on  a  gate  in 
a  tall  hedge.  Through  the  opening  we 
could  see,  across  broad  flower  gardens,  a 
solid,  spacious,  kindly  house,  amid  rustling 

384 


"The  Little  Red  Doctor 

shade,  flying  the  insignium  of  death  at  its 
door. 

At  the  sight  Dead-Men's-Shoes  pulled 
up  and  took  off  his  extinct  hat.  It  was  one 
of  the  most  extinct  hats  wherewith  I  have 
ever  known  him  to  grace  his  calling.  Its 
brim  was  fractured  in  two  places,  its  crown 
leaned  like  Pisa's  Tower,  and  it  bristled  in 
universal  offense  against  the  outer  world. 
Despite  all  this  it  was  indisputably  a  Silk 
Hat,  and,  as  such,  official  to  the  lawful  oc- 
casions of  the  wearer.  The  brown-and-gold 
fairy  looked  at  it  with  unfeigned  surprise. 
From  its  interior  Dead-Men's-Shoes  ex- 
tracted a  slip  of  paper  which  he  perused. 
He  then  addressed  the  fairy  in  a  soft  and 
respectful  tone. 

"You  ain't  on  the  list,  mum." 
"What  list?"   inquired  the  fairy  with 
interest.  "And  why  should  I  be  on  it?" 
"Not  you,  mum.  The  house." 
He   re-covered   his   head  and  contem- 
plated her  speculatively.   She  returned  his 

385 


Our  Square 


regard  with  sparkling  eyes  and  a  dimpling 
and  twitching  mouth. 

"Why  do  you  wear  that  extraordinary 
hat?"  she  broke  out. 

"  Business,"  murmured  Dead-Men's- 
Shoes.  "It's  my  business  hat.  If  I  could 
have  a  few  words  with  you  on  business?" 

"You  've  come  at  an  unfortunate  time," 
said  the  brown-and-gold  fairy.  "There 
is  a  death  in  the  family." 

"Yessum.  I  observed  that  the  Grim 
Reaper  had  visited  the  premises,"  said 
Dead-Men's-Shoes,  who  prides  himself 
upon  a  stock  of  correct,  elegant,  and  fe- 
licitous mortuary  phrases.  "  May  I  proffer 
my  humble  condolences?"  He  removed 
the  silk  hat  with  an  official  and  solemn 
flourish.  "Are  you  the  bereaved,  mum?" 

"The  what?" 

"The  relic  of  the  late  lamented?" 

"  No ;  only  a  cousin,  but  my  father  and 
I  are  Mr.  Bennington's  nearest  relatives. 
What  is  it  you  wish  ? " 
386 


The  Little  Red  Doctor 

"  In  that  case,"  said  Dead-Men's-Shoes, 
with  evident  relief,  "  an'  beggin'  your  par- 
don for  intrudin'  on  your  nach'ral  grief  an* 
distress,  we  might  trade.'*  He  coughed 
austerely.  "  About  clothes  now,"  he  sug- 
gested. 

"Clothes?  What  clothes?"  said  the 
fairy. 

"The  deceased's.  Or  shoes,  maybe? 
Or  even  hats." 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  mean,  you  ex- 
traordinary person?" 

"I  mean  fair,"  said  Dead-Men's-Shoes 
firmly.  "I  'm  here  to  buy  the  deceased's 
garments.  You  see,  lady,  I  read  all  the 
death  notices  in  the  N'York  papers,  an' 
when  I  've  got  ten  or  a  dozen  good  pros- 
pects in  one  locality  I  hitch  up  Dolly 
Gray  an'  make  my  rounds.  An'  though 
you  ain't  on  my  list,  I  won't  count  that 
against  you  when  we  come  to  dicker." 

"  But  we  don't  want  to  sell  Cousin  Ben's 
clothes,"  said  the  fairy  in  bewilderment. 

387 


Our  Square 

"  Dont-cha ! "  Dead-Men's  Shoes  took 
on  a  persuasively  argumentative  air.  "  Lis- 
sen,  lady.  Wotcha  goin'  to  do  with  them 
garments  ?" 

"I  hadn't  thought  about  it." 

"  Was  the  late  lamented  a  charitable  gent? 
Good  to  the  poor  and  that  sort  of  thing?" 

"Very." 

"There  you  are,  then!"  said  he  tri- 
umphantly. "  Sell  me  the  garments  for  a 
lot  o'  money.  I  'm  soft  on  swell  garments. 
Take  the  cash  an'  give  it  to  charity.  Le's 
begin  with  shoes.  How  many  pair  of  shoes 
would  you  say  the  untimely  victim  had?" 

Mirth  quivered  at  the  corners  of  the 
fairy's  soft  lips.  "He  wasn't  an  untimely 
victim.  He  was  seventy-six  years  old  and 
he  had  gout  so  dreadfully  that  he  had  to 
have  one  shoe  made  much  longer  than  the 
other." 

My  companion's  face  fell,  but  imme- 
diately brightened  with  hope.  "Which 
foot?" 

388 


The  Little  Red  Doctor 

She  considered.   "  The  left." 

"If  they  was  right  in  size  an*  price," 
he  mused,  "  they  might  do  for  the  Little 
Red  Doctor." 

The  brown-and-gold  fairy's  eyes  widened. 

"For  whom?"  she  asked. 

"The  Little  Red  Doctor." 

"  Why  do  you  call  him  that  ? " 

"  Because  he  's  little  an'  red-headed  an' 
the  smartest  doctor  in  N'York.  An'  if 
your  loved-an'-lost  one  had  had  him,  he  'd 
be  alive  to-day,"  he  added  with  profound 
conviction. 

"Where  does  he  live?" 

"Down  in  Our  Square  —  No.  n,  on 
the  East  Side ;  office  hours  nine  to  one.  If 
you  was  any  ways.ailin'  you  couldn't  do 
better'n  to  call." 

"And  there  is  something  the  matter 
with  his  left  foot  ?  "  she  pursued,  ignoring 
this  well-meant  advice.  "  What  ?  " 

"  It 's  dummed  hard  to  fit,"  replied 
Dead-Men's-Shoes  disconsolately. 

389 


Our  Square 


"  I  can  tell  you,"  I  interjected.  "  He 
injured  it  while  swimming." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  the  brown-and-gold  fairy. 
"And  —  and  this  gentleman's  description 
of  him  is  accurate?" 

"  But  not  adequate,"  I  said.  "  He  is 
wise  (a  confirmatory  nod  from  the  brown- 
and-gold  fairy)  and  brave  (another  nod) 
and  unselfish  (a  third  nod)  and  obstinate 
(two  nods)  and  beautiful  — " 

"  Oh  !  "  said  the  brown-and-gold  fairy, 
with  obvious  disappointment. 

"  —  to  us  who  know  him,  I  mean." 

She  smiled  up  at  me.  "  And  his  name 
is  Smith." 

"  It  is,"  I  averred. 

At  this  juncture  Dead-Men's-Shoes, 
who  had  been  fidgeting  on  his  wagon  seat, 
deemed  it  time  to  interfere  in  the  interests 
of  commerce.  "  Don't  butt  in,  dominie," 
he  protested  in  an  injured  aside.  "  These 
mourners  has  to  be  handled  with  tac'.  It 
takes  a  professional.  You  're  spoilin'  trade." 

390 


The  Little  Red  Doctor 

Herein  he  did  me  injustice.  The  brown- 
and-gold  fairy  threw  the  gate  open  and 
invited  Dead-Men's-Shoes  in  to  bargain. 
Highly  advantageous  bargaining  it  was,  I 
judged  from  the  ill-suppressed  jubilance 
of  my  associate's  face  when  he  emerged 
some  minutes  later,  tottering  under  a  bur- 
den of  assorted  clothing,  while  she  brought 
up  the  rear,  carrying  one  pair  of  shoes. 
The  rose  was  gone  from  her  hair. 

"  Remember,"  she  cautioned  him,  "  the 
suits  you  may  dispose  of  as  you  please, 
but  the  shoes  are  to  go  to  the  —  the 
Little  Red  Doctor  just  as  they  are.  Will 
you  see  that  they  do?"  She  appealed  to 
me. 

"  I  '11  take  them  myself,"  I  promised. 

"  Will  you  ?  That 's  kind  of  you.  But 
you  must  n't  tell  him  where  they  came 
from."  She  looked  up  at  me  and  I  seemed 
to  discern  something  wistful  in  her  eyes. 
"You  are  a  friend  of  Dr.  Smith's?" 

"Yes.  And  you?" 


Our  Square 


"  I  used  to  be,"  said  she  indifferently. 

Dead-Men's-Shoes  climbed  into  the 
wagon  and  lifted  the  lines.  "  Accept  the 
assurances  of  my  respec'ful  sympathy,"  he 
recited,  "an*  remember  the  address  if 
there 's  anything  further  in  my  line.  Wake 
up,  Dolly  Gray." 

The  brown-and-gold  fairy  floated  out 
through  the  gate  and  came  to  my  side. 

"  Does  he  still  limp  ?"  she  asked  in  a 
half  whisper. 

"  Imperceptibly,"  I  answered. 

"  I  don't  want  him  to  limp,"  she  cried 
imperiously  and  was  gone. 

Dolly  Gray  took  us  and  the  shoes  of 
the  deceased  cousin  on  our  way.  The  day's 
journey  ended  in  front  of  the  Little  Red 
Doctor's  office.  The  Little  Red  Doctor 
looked  up  from  some  sort  of  compli- 
cated mechanism  which  he  was  making 
for  crippled  Molly  Rankin  (who  could 
never  by  any  possibility  pay  him  for  it) 
and  appeared  astonished  at  the  sight  of 
392 


The  Little  Red  Doctor 

the  very  elegant  footwear  which  Dead- 
Men's-Shoes  extended  to  him. 

"  What  for? "  he  asked.  "  I 'm  not  buy- 
ing second-hand  shoes." 

"  Ask  the  dominie,"  said  Dead-Men's 
Shoes. 

"  They  're  a  present,"  I  explained. 

The  Little  Red  Doctor  looked  both 
puzzled  and  suspicious.  "  They  won't  fit 
my  queer  foot,"  he  objected. 

"  Try,"  encouraged  Dead-Men's-Shoes. 

The  Little  Red  Doctor  tried  on  the  left 
boot.  "  Pretty  good,"  he  said.  He  stood 
up  to  stamp  his  foot  down.  Then  he 
bounded  into  the  air  like  a  springbok, 
and  on  alighting,  tore  off  the  shoe,  saying 
something  harsh  and  profane  about  prac- 
tical jokers.  "There's  a  pin  in  it,"  he 
growled. 

"  Gosh !  "  exclaimed  Dead-Men's-Shoes, 
greatly  perturbed  at  this  evidence  of 
woman's  perfidy.  "  An'  her  in  the  sollim 
presence  of  death,  too  !  " 

393 


Our  Square 

"Her?  Who?"  demanded  the  Little 
Red  Doctor,  looking  up  from  his  explora- 
tions after  the  pin. 

"  Dadmun,"  said  I,  "  you  are  too 
loquacious.  Go  out  and  look  after  Dolly 
Gray." 

Duly  impressed  and  oppressed  by  my 
well-chosen  word,  the  ol'-clo'  man  trudged 
out  and  leaned  against  the  railing.  The 
Little  Red  Doctor  extracted  a  small  object 
from  the  shoe.  It  proved  to  be  a  pink  rose, 
impaled  upon  a  fine  golden  wire  which 
might  once  have  been  a  hairpin.  The  wire 
held  in  place  a  thin  strip  of  paper.  When 
he  saw  the  handwriting  on  the  paper  the 
Little  Red  Doctor  gave  another  leap.  It 
was  not  as  athletic  and  deerlike  as  his  first, 
but  was  still  a  creditable  performance. 
Then  he  flung  the  whole  combination  out 
through  the  open  window. 

"  Ow  !  "  ejaculated  Dead-Men's-Shoes 
from  his  place  against  the  railing. 

We  could   hear  him   scuffling  around 

394 


The  Little  Red  Doctor 

after  the  missile,  which  had  evidently  hit 
him  on  a  tender  spot.  His  voice  came 
clearly  to  us  reading  painfully  in  the  dim 
light. 

"  '  An'-no-bird-sings-in-Arcady ! ' 

"  Dadmun,"  said  I,  severely,  "that 
letter  is  not  addressed  to  you.'* 

"It  ain't  a  letter,'*  retorted  Dead- 
Men's-Shoes  aggrievedly.  f"  It  ain't  begun 
like  a  letter  oughta  be.  It  ain't  signed, 
like  a  letter  oughta  be.  It  *s  just  that  one 
fool  line.  Where  's  Arcady  an'  what 's  to 
stop  the  birds  singin'  there  if  they  want 
to  ?  Here  's  yer  valentine." 

He  flipped  it  back  through  the  win- 
dow. We  heard  the  creaking  of  the  wagon 
springs,  Dolly  Gray's  patient,  responsive 
grunt  and  her  retreating  footsteps  on  the 
asphalt.  I  retrieved  the  carrier  rose  and 
turned  to  the  Little  Red  Doctor. 

"Well?"  I  said.  "Where  is  Arcady, 
my  friend?  " 

He  shook  his  head. 

395 


Our  Square 


"  I  know  that  song,"  I  continued. 
"  How  does  the  verse  run  ? 

"  And  no  bird  sings  in  Arcady; 
The  little  fauns  have  left  the  hill ; 
Even  the  tired  daffodil 
Has  closed  its  gilded  doors,  and  still — " 

"  Don't !  "  said  the  Little  Red  Doctor 
hoarsely.  "  I  used  to  know  that  song."  He 
lifted  haggard  eyes  to  me.  "  You  've  seen 
her?" 

"  Yes." 

"How  did  she  look?" 

I  meditated.  "  Like  a  child  that  does  n't 
understand  why  it  is  n't  happy,"  I  said  at 
length. 

I  saw  the  Little  Red  Doctor's  sensitive 
mouth  quiver;  but  the  jaw  set  hard  and 
firm  and  ended  that  struggle. 

"  I  won't  ask  you  where,"  he  said. 

"  It  would  be  no  use.  I  could  n't  tell 
you." 

"  No."  He  accepted  that.  "  Then  why, 
in  the  name  of  Heaven,"  he  cried,  look- 

396 


"The  Little  Red  Doctor 

ing  at  the  rose,  "should  she —  Oh, 
well,  never  mind  that."  He  sat  thought- 
fully for  a  time.  "  Dominie,"  he  said, 
"  I  'm  going  to  tell  you.  It  will  do  me 
good,  I  think.  And  then  I  '11  forget  it 
again." 

It  was  not  altogether  a  pretty  story.  Four 
years  before,  it  began,  when  the  brown- 
and-gold  fairy  must  have  been  little  more 
than  a  child.  At  a  fashionable  cottage  place 
which  is  merely  a  glowing,  newspaper- 
glorified  name  to  Our  Square,  the  Little  Red 
Doctor,  who  had  come  down  for  a  tennis 
tournament,  had  jumped  off  a  pier  after  a 
small  boy  who  had  fallen  in.  He  referred  to 
it  and  to  the  brown-and-gold  fairy's  ro- 
mantic view  of  it  with  tolerant  contempt. 
"The  hee-ro  business,"  he  said  with  the 
medical  man's  disdain  of  the  more  obvi- 
ous forms  of  physical  peril.  "  I  run  more 
real  risks  every  day  of  my  life."  However, 
a  well-meaning  but  blundersome  launch 
had  broken  his  foot  with  its  wheel,  and 

397 


Our  Square 

the  girl,  who  had  seen  the  whole  adven- 
ture, carried  him  off  in  her  motor-car. 
Followed  the  usual  discovery  of  friends  in 
common,  and  by  the  time  the  crutches 
were  discarded,  the  victim  was  hopelessly 
enslaved.  Whether  they  were  'ever  actu- 
ally engaged  or  not  did  not  clearly  appear. 
The  Little  Red  Doctor  was  carefully  and 
gallantly  defensive  of  her  course.  Never- 
theless, knowing  the  Little  Red  Doctor 
as  I  do,  I  was  resentfully  sure  that  she  had 
treated  him  shamefully.  Finally  there  was 
an  issue  of  principle  between  them.  He 
alluded  to  it  vaguely.  "  She  did  n't  really 
care,  of  course,"  he  said.  "  Why  should 
she  ?  So  I  went  away  and  knocked  about 
the  world  for  a  bit.  Then  I  came  here 
because  in  Our  Square  there  would  n't  be 
much  chance  of  meeting  her,  you  see. 
There  's  just  one  thing  to  do.  Forget  her. 
So  I  've  forgotten  her."  And  the  Little 
Red  Doctor,  taking  the  rose  from  the 
table  where  I  had  tossed  it,  held  it  cher- 
398 


"The  Little  Red  Doctor 

ishingly  in  his  hands  as  if  it  were  a  hu- 
man, beating  heart. 

"Forget  her."  Quite  so!  It  was  just 
and  simple  and  sensible.  Yet,  while  I 
agreed  heartily,  I  had  my  private  misgiv- 
ings that  it  might  not  be  so  easy  to  forget  a 
face  with  that  particular  quality  of  witch- 
ery about  it,  a  witchery  wholly  distinct 
from  mere  beauty.  I  Ve  known  quite 
homely  women  to  have  it.  Not  that  the 
brown-and-gold  fairy  was  homely.  But  I 
cannot  quite  think  that  she  was  beautiful, 
either,  by  the  standards  of  calm  and  bal- 
anced judgment.  Only,  the  calmest  judg- 
ment would  be  put  to  it  to  preserve  its 
balance  with  those  eyes  turned  upon  it. 
She  had  an  unbalancing  personality,  that 
brown-and-gold  fairy,  even  to  an  old  and 
rusty-fusty  pedagogue  like  myself. 

In  fact,  she  was  quite  unreasonably  vivid 
to  my  thoughts  for  weeks  after  my  one 
brief  meeting  with  her.  I  believe  that  I 
was  actually  thinking  about  her  and  the 

399 


Our  Square 


Little  Red  Doctor,  seated  on  my  favorite 
bench  in  Our  Square,  on  the  August  morn- 
ing when  a  small,  soft  voice  quite  close 
behind  me  said :  — 

"  Mr.  Dominie." 

I  got  up  and  turned  around.  There 
stood  the  brown-and-gold  fairy.  I  frowned 
upon  her  severely.  Not  as  severely  as  she 
doubtless  deserved,  considering  how  the 
Little  Red  Doctor  had  winced  at  the 
mention  of  her,  but  as  severely  as  was 
practicable  in  the  face  of  the  way  she  was 
smiling  at  me. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  coming  up  be- 
hind me  and  startling  me  with  your  '  Mr. 
Dominie'?"  I  demanded. 

"  I  heard  the  man  with  the  funny  hat 
call  you  that.  Is  n't  it  your  name  ? " 

"  It  will  serve.  What  are  you  doing  in 
Our  Square  ? " 

"  I  came  down  to  see  the  place." 

"  You  came  down  to  see  the  Little  Red 
Doctor,"  I  charged. 

400 


The  Little  Red  Doctor 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  protested  softly.  "  Just 
to  see  the  place  where  he  lives.  I  went 
near  there,  but  he  came  out  and  I  ran 
away." 

"  You  need  n't  have,"  I  said.  "  He  has 
forgotten  you." 

"  I  don't  think  it  nice  of  you  to  say 
that,  Mr.  Dominie." 

There  was  a  little  break  in  her  voice.  I 
looked  away  hastily.  Though,  if  I  had 
made  her  cry,  it  served  her  right.  I 
looked  back  and  found  that  she  was  not 
crying.  She  was  laughing.  At  me  ! 

"  He  has  forgotten  you,"  I  repeated 
positively,  "as  he  ought." 

"  Yes ;  I  suppose  he  ought,"  she  as- 
sented dolorously.  "  But  he  has  n't,"  she 
added  with  a  sudden  change  to  an  ador- 
able impertinence.  "  You  know  he  has 
n't.  Nobody  ever  forgets  me.  You  did  n't 
forget  me,  did  you  ?  And  you  'd  only  seen 
me  once." 

"  Why  am  I  seeing  you  now  ?  " 
401 


Our  Square 


"Because  you  're  old  and  wise  and  you 
look  kind." 

"  I  am  very  old  and  extremely  wise," 
I  answered,  "  but  my  kindly  expression  is 
mere  senile  deterioration  of  the  facial 
muscles.  I  am  really  brutal." 

"  But  you  '11  be  kind  to  me,"  she  averred 
trustfully. 

I  surrendered.  "  What  about  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  see  the  —  the  Little  Red 
Doctor,  and  yet  I  —  I  don't  want  to  see 
him.  Do  you  know  what  I  mean  ?" 

"No.   Do  you?" 

"  N-n-no.  I  suppose  I  don't  exactly. 
Do  you  think  he  'd  like  to  see  me?" 

"  I  'm  sure  he  would  n't." 

Her  lip  quivered.  "  And  you  said  you  'd 
be  kind  to  me,"  she  murmured  plaintively. 

"  Not  at  all !  Ton  said  I  'd  be  kind  to 
you.  Are  you  in  love  with  the  Little  Red 
Doctor?" 

"Of  course  I  'm  not ! "  she  asserted  vio- 
lently. 

402 


The  Little  Red  Doctor 

"Then  why  are  you  here  in  Our  Square 
at  all  ?  Does  the  scenery  entice  you  ?  Are 
you  enthralled  by  our  social  advantages? 
Would  you  like  to  meet  some  of  our  lead- 
ing local  lights?" 

"I  would  like  to  meet  somebody  who 
is  really  wise  and  kind,  too  wise  and  kind 
to  make  fun  of  poor  little  me." 

"That 's  the  Bonnie  Lassie,"  said  I  with 
sudden,  inspired  conviction.  "  Come  with 
me." 

"Where?"  asked  the  brown-and-gold 
fairy,  hanging  back  doubtfully. 

"  To  her  studio  where  she  sculps  won- 
derful and  beautiful  things.  If  I  'm  any 
judge  she  '11  sculp  you  as  a  butterfly  that 's 
lost  its  way  in  this  wicked  — " 

"I  'm  not  a  butterfly,"  interrupted  my 
companion.  "  I  'm  a  very  serious  person 
on  a  very  serious  errand." 

« —  world,"  I  proceeded.  "And  she'll 
talk  to  you  about  the  Little  Red  Doc- 
tor—  » 

403 


Our  Square 


"  Will  she  ? "  murmured  the  brown-and- 
gold  fairy,  moving  after  me. 

"  —  whom  she  loves  devotedly  —  " 

"Does  she!"  said  the  brown-and-gold 
fairy,  stopping  short. 

"  —  as  every  one  in  Our  Square  does 
and  ought  to  —  " 

"  Oh ! "  remarked  the  fairy,  catching  up 
with  me  again. 

" — for  reasons  which  you  should  know 
as  well  as  any  one." 

"I  don't,"  retorted  the  fairy,  muti- 
nously. "  Who  is  the  Bonnie  Lassie  ?  You 
all  have  such  queer  names  here,  Mr. 
Dominie ! " 

"  In  private  life  she's  Mrs.  Cyrus  Staten: 
otherwise  Cecily  Willard." 

The  golden  lights  in  the  fairy's  eyes 
deepened  with  astonishment.  "  Not  the 
famous  Miss  Willard  who  does  the  figu- 
rines! Does  she  live  'way  down  here  in 
this — this — " 

"  Slum,"  I  supplied.  "  Don't  be  afraid  to 
404 


Little  Red  Doctor 


say  it.  Our  Square  is  n't  sensitive  to  what 
outsiders  think  of  us." 

"This  nice,  queer  old  park,"  concluded 
the  fairy  with  dignity.  "And  I  suppose  she 
is  very  old  and  wise  and  —  is  she  kind?" 

"She  is  very  young  and  lovely  to  look 
at  and  as  wise  as  she  needs  to  be  for  her 
own  happiness  and  —  come  along  and  see 
her." 

"But  you  mustn't  tell  her  —  "was  as 
far  as  she  got  when  the  Bonnie  Lassie 
came  out  of  the  studio  with  a  smudge  of 
clay  on  the  tip  of  her  chin,  and  regarded 
my  pink  and  captive  fairy  with  undis- 
guised amazement. 

"This  young  discovery  of  mine,"  I 
explained,  "has  come  to  Our  Square  for 
the  purpose  of  not  seeing  the  Little  Red 
Doctor.  Dead-Men's-Shoes  struck  up  a 
professional  acquaintance  with  her  in  the 
country  and  told  her  about  the  Doctor  — 
whom  she  doesn't  want  to  see  —  being  in 
Our  Square.  As  she  has  n't  seen  him  for 
405 


several  years  and  as  he  has  been  trying  hard 
and  conscientiously  to  forget  her,  she  has 
come,  incognita,  where  he  is,  in  order  to 
keep  on  not  seeing  him  and  to  discover 
whether  he  has  forgotten.  It's  all  just  as 
simple  as  it  sounds." 

My  fairy  suddenly  became  a  person,  and 
a  very  decided  person.  "  I  beg  your  par- 
don," she  said.  "I  am  not  incognita.  My 
name  is  Ethel  Bennington,  and  I  think 
you  are  a  very  unkind  old  man." 

The  Bonnie  Lassie  set  a  slender,  strong 
hand  on  the  visitor's  wrist  and  drew  her 
within.  "Never  mind  him,  my  dear,"  she 
said  softly.  "  He  is  n't  really  unkind.  He 's 
just  a  tease."  She  paused  and  studied  her 
caller  a  moment.  Then,  with  her  irresist- 
ible smile,  she  said :  "I  know  it's  dread- 
ful of  me — but,  would  you  mind  if  I  just 
sketched  you  hastily  ?" 

Now,  that  may  have  been  the  artist  of 
it  breaking  through,  or  it  may  have  been 
just  the  way  of  her  invincible  tact  and 
406 


The  Little  Red  Doctor 

management;  you  never  can  tell,  with  the 
Bonnie  Lassie.  But  it's  a  proven  fact  that 
nobody  can  sit  to  her  without  giving  up 
his  heart's  secrets,  and  sometimes  she  puts 
them  in  the  bronze.  Most  unfairly  I  was 
banished,  for  the  brown-and-gold  fairy  with 
a  flush  of  pleasure  said  she'd  sit  at  once. 
And  from  that  sitting  grew  another  sit- 
ting and  another  and  many  to  follow. 
Sometimes  I  was  bidden  in.  It  was  a  sheer 
delight  to  sit  there  and  watch  those  two 
young  creatures,  the  sculptress  gay  and 
sunny  and  splendid  in  the  glad  beauty 
of  power  and  achievement;  the  model, 
wistful,  sweet,  and  vivid  by  turns,  a  fairy 
from  a  brighter  world  bringing  her  fairy 
gold  to  our  grim  and  dusty  neighborhood. 
Out  of  a  working  silence  the  brown-and- 
gold  fairy  spoke  one  day. 

"Is  he  poor?" 

"Is  who  — "  I  began. 

But  the   quicker  apprehension   of  the 
artist  cut  in  on  me. 

407 


Our  Square 

"  It  is  n't  exactly  a  fashionable  practice, 
the  Little  Red  Doctor's.  Is  it, dominie?" 

"No.  But  poor  —  certainly  not,  by  the 
standards  of  Our  Square.  He  has  a  new 
black  suit  for  professional  service  every 
year." 

"  Um !  "  said  the  fairy  doubtfully.  Then, 
after  a  pause,  "He  could  have  been  rich, 
you  know." 

"Could  he?"  said  the  Bonnie  Lassie, 
holding  her  iron  poised  over  the  shadow 
of  a  flying  dimple. 

"An  invention.  Something  to  do  with 
his  surgery,"  explained  the  girl.  "  Father 
said  there  were  big  possibilities  in  it.  He 
offered  to  finance  it  himself.  But  he  — 
the  Lit — Dr.  Smith  would  n't  even  take 
out  a  patent  on  it." 

The  Bonnie  Lassie  lowered  her  weapon. 
"Do  you  mean  the  pressure  brace  for 
atrophy?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  girl,  surprised.  "  How 
do  you  know  about  it?" 
408 


The  Little  Red  Doctor 

"Cyrus's  uncle  —  he's  Dr.  Hardaman, 
the  great  orthopedic  surgeon  —  says  that 
there  are  thousands  of  children  walking 
to-day  who  owe  their  legs  to  that  brace 
of  the  Little  Red  Doctor's." 

"  You  never  told  any  of  us  about  that ! " 
I  cried. 

"No,"  she  answered  composedly.  "It 
seemed  to  make  the  Little  Red  Doctor 
uncomfortable  when  Cyrus  spoke  of  it.  So 
we  kept  it  quiet." 

"You  see,  he  might  really  have  made 
a  fortune  by  patenting  it,"  said  the  brown- 
and-gold  fairy.. 

"That  is  what  I  asked  Uncle  Charles. 
He  said  that  physicians,  the  best  type, 
don't  take  out  patents.  You  see,  the  pat- 
ent would  have  made  the  brace  cost  more, 
and  the  more  it  cost  the  fewer  people  could 
buy  it,  and  that  would  mean  more  chil- 
dren who  ought  to  have  walked  and 
couldn't.  And,  oh,  my  dear!  if  you  could 
see  the  poor,  pitiful,  wee  things  as  we  see 
409 


Our  Square 

them  in   Our   Square,  withered  and  hob- 
bling like  old,  worn-out  folk  —  " 

"Don't!   Don't!"   cried  the   girl.  "I 

—  I  never  thought  of  it  that  way." 
"Why  should  you?  But  the  Little  Red 

Doctor  would." 

"  Yes,  but  he  did  n't  explain  it  that 
way,"  said  the  brown-and-gold  fairy  mis- 
erably. "He  said  something  stupid  about 
ethics,  and  I  said  something  I  did  n't  mean 

—  and,"  —  her  head  drooped,  —  "  and  that 
was  our  last  quarrel." 

"  And  you  loved  him  all  the  time,  and 
still  do,"  said  the  Bonnie  Lassie  gently. 

"  I  did  n't !  I  don't !  "  denied  the  brown- 
and-gold  fairy  vehemently. 

"  Then  why  have  you  come  down  here  ? " 
demanded  the  inexorable  sculptress. 

"Because,"  said  the  fairy  in  a  fairy's 
whisper,  "I  —  I  just  wanted  to  see  him 
again.  All  the  other  men  are  so  alike.'' 

"  Yes ;  yes,  I  know,"  said  the  Bonnie 
Lassie  and  threw  an  arm  over  her  shoulder, 
410 


The  Little  Red  Doctor 

and  gave  me  a  swift  and  wordless  com- 
mand to  go  away  and  be  quick  about  it. 

For  the  subsequent  developments  of  the 
affair  I  expressly  disclaim  all  responsibility. 
True,  I  was  made  an  agent.  But  that  was 
coercion,  such  coercion  as  the  Bonnie  Las- 
sie practices  on  all  of  us.  The  scheme  was 
hers  and  hers  alone.  If  there  is  a  weakness 
in  the  Bonnie  Lassie's  character,  it  is  over- 
fondness  for  the  romantic  and  the  dra- 
matic. She  loves  to  set  the  stage  and  move 
the  puppets,  and  be  the  goddess  from  the 
machine  generally.  Miss  Ethel  Benning- 
ton,  cast  for  the  leading  part,  accepted  it 
all  implicitly,  for  in  the  strange  environ- 
ment of  Our  Square  she  was  uncertain 
and  self-distrustful,  and  she  readily  fell  in 
with  the  dramatist's  principal  theme ;  to 
wit,  that  she  had  treated  the  Little  Red 
Doctor  very  ill,  and  said  wounding  things 
hard  to  be  forgiven  by  a  high-spirited, 
sensitive,  and  red-headed  lover ;  that  any 
basis  of  pardon  and  understanding  would 
411 


Our  Square 

be  difficult  and  painful  to  arrive  at,  but 
that  if  he  found  her  in  straits  and  needing 
him,  then  the  truth  would  come  out  and 
she  would  know  at  once  whether  he  still 
cared  for  her  or  not,  a  point  upon  which 
my  brown-and-gold  fairy  had  her  dismal 
doubts,  it  seems.  Therefore  she  would 
please  buy  herself  a  working  outfit  and 
take  a  job  with  —  well — with  Dead- 
Men's-Shoes.  Just  the  thing!  Dead-Men's- 
Shoes,  knowing  so  much  of  the  matter, 
would  require  little  explanation.  The  la- 
bor, sorting  over  and  classifying  his  resid- 
uary apparel, 'would  be  not  too  violent; 
and  the  Little  Red  Doctor  passed  by  the 
door  daily  on  his  way  to  the  top  floor  to 
visit  little  Fannie  McKay  who  had  the 
rickets.  It  was  only  a  question  of  time 
when  he  would  find  the  fairy  there  toil- 
ing in  poverty.  Such  was  the  setting  de- 
vised by  the  Bonnie  Lassie  to  bring  those 
two  together.  For  the  rest,  let  Fate  take 
its  course. 

412 


The  Little  Red  Doctor 

Fate  did.  For  their  own  private  rea- 
sons, or  perhaps  in  sheer  derision  of  the 
human  dramatist's  puny  efforts,  the  High 
Gods  of  Drama  took  a  hand  in  the  affair. 
They  smote  the  Little  Red  Doctor,  if  not 
exactly  hip  and  thigh,  at  least,  tooth  and 
jaw ;  so  that  he  was  incapacitated  for  any 
sort  of  decent,  peaceable  human  associa- 
tion. They  gave  him  an  abominable  tooth- 
ache. The  Bonnie  Lassie  came  across  Our 
Square  to  apprise  me  of  the  fact,  with  dis- 
may in  her  face. 

"What 's  a  toothache,"  I  said,  "in  such 
circumstances  !  " 

The  Bonnie  Lassie  looked  at  me  scorn- 
fully- "  Men  have  no  sense,"  she  sighed. 
"  Do  you  think  I  'm  going  to  have  their 
meeting  spoiled  by  a  wretched  thing  like 
that,  after  all  these  years  ?  Besides,  he  's 
all  swollen  on  one  side." 

"  I  see.  You  don't  wish  his  classic 
beauty  impaired  on  this  occasion." 

"Don't  be  disagreeable.  And  do  be  good. 


Our  Square 


Go  to  the  Little  Red  Doctor  and  tell  him 
he  must  have  it  fixed." 

I  went  to  the  Little  Red  Doctor  and 
told  him  that  very  thing.  To  this  day  I 
believe  that  my  age  alone  saved  me  from 
a  murderous  assault.  "  Have  it  fixed  ? " 
howled  the  Little  Red  Doctor.  "  Don't 
you  suppose  I  want  to  have  it  fixed? 
Don't  be  an  imbecile,  dominie." 

"  Then  come  along  now  to  Doc  Selters 
and  get  it  filled." 

"  I  don't  want  it  filled.  I  want  it  pulled. 
I  want  to  get  it  out  and  stamp  on  it ! " 

"  Well,  he  will  pull  it." 

"  He  will  not.  He  says  it 's  got  to  be 
saved.  He  's  killing  the  nerve  —  on  the 
Spanish  Inquisition  principle.  I  'd  go  to 
the  fifty  cent  yankers  this  minute  if  I  did 
n't  have  a  saw-ofFwith  Selters.". 

"A  what?" 

"  A  saw-off.  A  professional  exchange. 
He  owes  me  two  liver-attacks  and  a  dif- 
fuse laryngitis ;  and  the  best  he  '11  do," 
414 


"The  Little  Red  Doctor 

cried  the  Little  Red  Doctor,  dancing  with 
rage  and  pain,  "  is  to  say  that  the  worst 
of  it  is  over.  D n  his  eyes  !  " 

Plainly,  the  Bonnie  Lassie  was  right. 
The  Little  Red  Doctor  was  in  no  state  to 
meet  vital  issues.  I  went  over  to  Dead- 
Men  's-Shoes'  place,  and  there  beheld  the 
brown-and-gold  fairy  skillfully  sewing 
trouser  buttons  on  waistcoats.  She  looked 
tired  and  pathetic,  and  when  she  saw  me 
she  jumped  up  and  ran  to  me. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Dominie ! "  she  cried. 
"  Where  is  he  ?  " 

I  shook  my  head.  Somehow  I  had  n't 
the  heart  to  obtrude  as  unpoetic  a  motif  as 
a  toothache  upon  that  prospective  romance. 

"  I  've  worked  and  worked  and  worked," 
she  said,  with  a  drooping  mouth,  "  and 
he  does  n't  come.  And  Miss  Willard  won't 
tell  me  why.  I  'm  sure  something  has  hap- 
pened to  him.  Has  there?" 

"Why,  no,"  I  said.  "That  is — er  — 
certainly  not ! " 


Our  Square 


"There  has!"  She  set  her  hands  on 
my  shoulders  and  explored  my  face  with 
her  sweet,  anxious  eyes.  "  Tell  me.  You 
must  tell  me  !  It  was  you  who  brought  me 
here."  (Oh,  the  justice  of  womankind  !) 

"  Was  it,  indeed  !  " 

"  Well,  it  is  your  fault  that  —  that  I 
came.  You  encouraged  me."  She  let  her 
hands  drop  and  her  eyes  darkened  with  re- 
proach. "Won't  you  tell  me  if  he  is  ill? " 

"He  isn't  ill.  On  honor." 

Despite  her  workaday  garb,  she  was  in- 
stantly metamorphosed  into  the  brown- 
and-gold  fairy  again.  "  Then,  when  is  he 
coming? " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  You  do  !  But  you  won't  tell.  You  're 
playing  with  me,  you  and  Miss  Willard." 

"  Did  n't  you  play  with  the  Little  Red 
Doctor  ?  What  about  that  clandestine 
message  in  the  toe  of  the  shoe  ?  " 

"  Oh !  "  She  had  the  grace  to  blush 
(and  a  brown-and-gold  fairy's  blush  is 
416 


"The  Little  Red  Doctor 

something  to  cherish  in  memory).  But 
at  once  curiosity  overbore  shame.  "  Did 
you  give  him  the  shoes  yourself?  What 
did  he  say  when  he  put  them  on  ? " 

Recalling  the  impassioned  monosyllable 
which  signalized  the  Little  Red  Doctor's 
original  discovery  of  the  hairpin,  I  replied 
truthfully  enough :  "  I  don't  think  that 
would  interest  you." 

"  Don't  you?  Then  how  did  he  look?" 

"Severe." 

"I  know!  Oh,  how  well  I  know!" 
Her  voice  declined  to  a  caressing  murmur. 
"  And  all  the  time  there  's  that  twinkle 
of  fun  and  sympathy  underneath  the  frown. 
Oh,  ever  so  deep  underneath  !  It  took  me 
a  long  time  to  find  it." 

"  And  longer  to  forget  it  ? "  I  suggested 
with  malice. 

"I  don't  want  to  forget  it,"  retorted  the 
fairy  loftily.  "  I  could  if  I  chose.  You  're 
sure  there  is  n't  anything  the  matter  with 
him?" 


Our  Square 


"  I  never  said  there  was  n't  anything 
the  matter  with  him.  I  said  he  was  n't 
ill." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  think  it 's  very  mean  of 
you.  You  may  go  and  sit  on  that  pile  of 
coats  —  the  unpressed  ones  —  and  watch 
me  work  my  poor  ringers  to  the  bone 
sewing  on  buttons  until  your  hard  heart 
softens  and  you  come  to  a  properer  frame 
of  mind." 

Accordingly  I  sat  down  and  contem- 
plated, not  without  a  certain  grim  satis- 
faction, the  spectacle  of  a  brown-and-gold 
fairy  sentenced  to  honest  labor.  Shadows 
deepened  in  the  room  until  she  was  al- 
most in  darkness.  If  the  necessity  of  labor 
weighed  upon  her  blithe  spirit,  she  gave 
no  evidence  of  it,  for  presently  she  began 
to  hum  to  herself  in  a  soft,  crooning  un- 
dertone, "  speech  half-asleep  or  song  half- 
awake."  Clearer  and  clearer  grew  the 
melody,  waxing  to  full  awakeness,  as  the 
fresh  and  lovely  young  voice  filled  the 
418 


"The  Little  Red  Doctor 

room  with  ^the  verse,  one  single  line  of 
which  had  dragged  the  Little  Red  Doc- 
tor's heart  back  across  the  unforgetting 
years :  — 

"  The  falling  dew  is  cold  and  chill, 
And  no  bird  sings  in  Arcady ; 
The  little  fauns  have  left  the  hill ; 
Even  the  tired  daffodil 
Has  closed  its  gilded  doors,  and  still 
My  lover  comes  not  back  to  me." 

The  girlish  voice  trembled  and  stopped. 
The  singer's  hands  fell  into  her  lap.  Her 
eyes  dreamed.  I  think  she  must  have  for- 
gotten, in  the  spell  of  music  that  she  wove, 
the  presence  of  an  old  man  in  the  dark- 
ening room.  I  heard  a  soft,  weary  little 
catch  of  the  breath,  and  then  a  name  pro- 
nounced low  and  beseechingly,  "  Chris." 

Now,  this  drama,  as  laid  out  by  that 
romantic  manageress  the  Bonnie  Lassie, 
did  not  include  music.  The  fairy  song, 
I  strongly  suspect,  was  the  interposition 
of  the  Higher  Gods  of  Destiny.  For  the 
spell  of  it  evolved  and  made  real  the  past, 
419 


Our  Square 


and  out  of  the  past  stepped  the  Little  Red 
Doctor  and  stood  trembling  in  the  door- 
way of  the  ol'-clo'  repository. 

"Who  sang?"  he  gasped. 

I  sat  motionless.  Neither  the  Bonnie 
Lassie  nor  the  Higher  Fates  had  assigned 
me  a  speaking  part  in  the  crisis. 

"  Whose  voice  was  that  ? "  said  the  Little 
Red  Doctor  fearfully.  "  Am  I  hearing 
sounds  that  don't  exist?" 

Out  of  the  deepest  of  the  shadows  came 
the  voice,  broken,  and  thrilling. 

"  Chris  !   Oh,  Chris,  is  it  really  you  ? " 

"  Ethel !  "  said  the  Little  Red  Doctor 
in  a  breathless  cry. 

He  stumbled  halfway  across  the  dim 
room,  encountered  a  chair,  and  stopped. 
"  What  are  you  doing  here  ? "  he  de- 
manded. His  voice  had  hardened  sud- 
denly to  that  of  a  cross-examiner. 

All  the  appealing  and  dramatic  fiction 
which  the  Bonnie  Lassie  had  carefully  in- 
stilled into  her  subject  for  this  crisis  —  the 
420 


The  Little  Red  Doctor 

once  rich  and  careless  butterfly  girl  now 
brought  low  in  the  world  and  working  for 
her  precarious  living  —  went  by  the  board. 
"I  —  Id-d-d-don't  know,"  stammered  the 
brown-and-gold  fairy. 

"You  —  don't  —  know,"  he  repeated. 
Then,  vehemently;  "You  must  know." 

Silence  from  the  dim  corner. 

"  Have  you  come  back  here  to  make 
my  life  wretched  with  longing  again?" 

"  No.  Oh,  no  !  " 

"Well?  Why,  then?" 

"  Don't  be  cruel  to  me,  Chris,"  pleaded 
the  voice,  a  very  wee,  piteous  voice  now. 
Brown-and-gold  fairies  should  not  be  bul- 
lied by  little,  red,  fierce  men  with  the 
toothache.  They  are  not  accustomed  to 
it  and  they  don't  know  how  to  defend 
themselves.  Up  to  this  moment  my  one 
purpose  had  been  to  tiptoe  unobtrusively 
to  the  door  and  escape.  Now  I  wondered 
whether  I  ought  not  to  stay  and  offer  aid 
to  the  abused  fairy.  At  the  next  word  from 
421 


Our  Square 


the  Little  Red  Doctor,  however,  I  gave 
up  that  notion,  and  resumed  my  cautious 
retreat. 

"I?  Cruel  —  to  you?"  he  said  deso- 
lately. Then,  after  a  long  pause :  "  I  can't 
see  you.  I  'm  glad  I  can't  see  you.  If  you 
could  know  how  many  times  I  've  seen 
you  since — since  I  went  away." 

"Seen  me?  Where?" 

"  Nowhere.  Everywhere.  Night  after 
weary  night.  For  a  year.  Or  perhaps  it 
was  two  years.  Only,  then  you  were  n't 
real.  You  did  n't  sing." 

"Ah ! "  The  exclamation  hardly  stirred 
the  air.  But  I  knew,  as  well  as  if  I  had 
seen  it,  that  the  woman's  eyes  of  the 
brown-and-gold  fairy  were  yearning  to 
him  and  that  her  hands  were  pressed  over 
her  woman's  heart,  which  yearned  to  him, 
too. 

"  No.  You  never  sang  to  me.  You 
spoke.  You  said  the  same  thing  over  and 
over  again.  You  said,  '  I  don't  love  you 
422 


Little  Red  Doctor 


and  I  never  did  love  you  and  I  never  could 
love  you/  ' 

There  was  a  stifled  cry  from  the  dark- 
ness, and  a  rustle  and  the  sound  of  swift, 
light  feet.  Two  dim  figures  met  and 
merged  in  one.  The  fairy  voice,  with  a 
desperate  effort  to  be  still  a  voice  and  not 
quite  a  sob  of  mingled  pity  and  joy,  mur- 
mured brokenly:  "I  —  I  d-d-don't  love 
you.  But  I  c-c-can't  live  away  from  you." 

And  I  passed  out,  on  tiptoe,  unnoted. 
The  tiptoe  feature  was,  I  dare  say,  super- 
fluous. I  suppose  I  might  have  marched 
out  to  the  blare  of  a  brass  band  and  with 
a  salvo  of  artillery,  and  still  have  been  as 
a  formless,  soundless  wraith  to  the  Little 
Red  Doctor  who  stood  holding  all  heaven 
and  earth  in  his  arms. 

Quarter  of  an  hour  afterward  I  sat  on 
the  front  steps  of  the  house  of  Dead-Men's- 
Shoes  musing.  The  Little  Red  Doctor  and 
the  brown-and-gold  fairy  came  out  to- 
gether. They  were  conversing  in  demure 

423 


Our  Square 


tones  and  with  a  commonplace  air  about 
the  prospects  of  rain.  So  wholly  at  ease 
and  natural  did  they  seem  that  I  began  to 
have  misgivings.  It  didn't  seem  in  hu- 
man nature  that  they  should  be  calmly  dis- 
cussing the  weather.  Could  I  have  fallen 
asleep  on  my  heap  of  mortuary  clothing 
and  dreamed  all  that  happiness  of  theirs  ? 
I  rose  and  intercepted  them. 

"How  is  the  toothache?"  I  asked  the 
Little  Red  Doctor. 

The  Little  Red  Doctor  turned  on  me 
a  face  transfigured.  "  What  toothache  ? " 
he  said  vaguely. 

Then  I  knew  that  my  dream  was  reality. 


THE    END 


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